Timothy Tight, Timothy Tight,
Says he will neither have sup nor bite,
Nor comb to his hair, nor sleep in his bed,
Till he has done what he thinks in his head.
What is it poor little Timothy thinks
To do before he eats, or drinks,
Or combs, or sleeps? Why, Timothy Tight
Thinks in his head to turn black into white!
He caught a crow, and he tried with that,
He tried again with a great black cat,
He tried again with dyes and inks;
He keeps on trying to do what he thinks!
He tried with lumps of coals a score,
He tried with jet, and a blackamoor,
He tried with these till he got vext--
He means to try the Black Sea next.
[Illustration]
V
Baby, baby, bless her;
How shall mammy dress her?
The summer cloud
Is not too proud
To find soft wool to dress her.
The bluebell
Is a true bell,
And will find the blue to dress her.
The cherry-tree
Is a merry tree,
And will find the pink to dress her.
The lily bright
Will find the white,
The beautiful white to dress her.
The leaves in the wood
Are sweet and good,
And will find the green to dress her.
The honeysuckle,
With buds for a buckle,
Will make a girdle to dress her.
The heavens hold
Both silver and gold
In the stars, and they will dress her.