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Peacock Pie, a Book of Rhymes

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  Down the Hill of Ludgate,     Up the Hill of Fleet,  To and fro and East and West     With people flows the street;  Even the King of England     On Temple Bar must beat  For leave to ride to Ludgate     Down the Hill of Fleet.


  Mrs. Earth makes silver black,     Mrs. Earth makes iron red  But Mrs. Earth can not stain gold,     Nor ruby red.  Mrs. earth the slenderest bone     Whitens in her bosom cold,  But Mrs. Earth can change my dreams     No more than ruby or gold.  Mrs. Earth and Mr. Sun     Can tan my skin, and tire my toes,  But all that I'm thinking of, ever shall think,     Why, either knows.


  Ann, Ann!     Come! Quick as you can!  There's a fish that talks     In the frying-pan.  Out of the fat,     As clear as glass,  He put up his mouth     And moaned 'Alas!'  Oh, most mournful,     'Alas, alack!'  Then turned to his sizzling,     And sank him back.


  Poor Tired Tim! It's sad for him.  He lags the long bright morning through,  Ever so tired of nothing to do;  He moons and mopes the livelong day,  Nothing to think about, nothing to say;  Up to bed with his candle to creep,  Too tired to yawn, too tired to sleep:  Poor Tired Tim! It's sad for him.


  Jemima is my name,     But oh, I have another;  My father always calls me Meg,     And so do Bob and mother;  Only my sister, jealous of     The strands of my bright hair,  'Jemima - Mima - Mima!'     Calls, mocking, up the stair.


  Three jolly gentlemen,     In coats of red,  Rode their horses     Up to bed.

  Three jolly gentlemen     Snored till morn,  Their horses champing     The golden corn.

  Three jolly gentlemen,     At break of day,  Came clitter-clatter down the stairs  And galloped away.


  Has anybody seen my Mopser? —     A comely dog is he,  With hair of the colour of a Charles the Fifth,     And teeth like ships at sea,  His tail it curls straight upwards,     His ears stand two abreast,  And he answers to the simple name of Mopser     When civilly addressed.


  I can't abear a Butcher,     I can't abide his meat,  The ugliest shop of all is his,     The ugliest in the street;  Bakers' are warm, cobblers' dark,     Chemists' burn watery lights;  But oh, the sawdust butcher's shop,     That ugliest of sights!


  Why does he still keep ticking?     Why does his round white face  Stare at me over the books and ink,     And mock at my disgrace?  Why does that thrush call, 'Dunce, dunce, dunce!'?     Why does that bluebottle buzz?  Why does the sun so silent shine? —     And what do I care if it does?


  Clapping her platter stood plump Bess,     And all across the green  Came scampering in, on wing and claw,     Chicken fat and lean:  Dorking, Spaniard, Cochin China,     Bantams sleek and small,  Like feathers blown in a great wind,     They came at Bessie's call....