There was an old woman
— Went blackberry picking
Along the hedges
— From Weep to Wicking.
Half a pottle —
— No more she had got,
When out steps a Fairy
— From her green grot;
And says, " Well, Jill,
— Would 'ee pick 'ee mo? "
And Jill, she curtseys,
— And looks just so.
" Be off, " says the Fairy,
— " As quick as you can,
Over the meadows
— To the little green lane,
That dips to the hayfields
— Of Farmer Grimes;
I've berried those hedges
— A score of times;
Bushel on bushel

There was an Old Woman named Towl
Who went out to sea with her Owl,
But the Owl was sea-sick
And screamed for physic;
Which sadly annoyed Mistress Towl.

There was an old woman lived under a hill,
And if she's not gone, she lives there still.

The plant it springs it rears its drooping head
Strengthened with every shower that falls from heaven
See quickly at their touch its branches spread
And soon twill bless with flowers look they are given
The promised blessing cannot be delayed
But fast will follow every good intent
Tis not in vain thy mourning spirit prayed
Behold the rich reward in answer sent
Peace from the Father joy a full increase
For all thou sowed in sorrow in the earth
Thy joy shall bud and bloom thy new found peace
Grow with each day. Thine is the promised birth

There was an Old Person whose habits
Induced him to feed upon rabbits;
When he'd eaten eighteen,
He turned perfectly green,
Upon which he relinquished those habits.

There is no joy like that in finding Thee
Thou art my shelter from each storm that blows
He walks abroad his way is safe and free
Who loves and in new commandment goes
For him there waits not who can do him harm
He knows no fear he sees no covert foe
He carries with him that which rage can charm
And bid the kindled fire of hate burn low
Love turns aside the malar pointed dart
The icy hand it warms and then restores
Who feels and knows not of its gentle art
That cures each wound that saddened grief deplores

There was an Old Person of Wick,
Who said, " Tick-a-Tick, Tick-a-Tick,
Chickabee, Chickabaw." And he said, nothing more,
That laconic Old Person of Wick.

Where are ye, ye who mocked my arm of late
I triumph now your hour of mirth is past
Bow down I come in strength of Christ elate
Boast not; I breathe; ye fall before the blast.
Ye hills retire! open thou raging sea
My steps are onward now; ye cannot stay
The God of battles — lo He fights for me
Submit before His feet prepare the way
Ye iron breasted armies too I scorn
Away how feeble is the spear or sword
I am of Him who gives the quicking spirit born
And wield forever wield the conquering word
Its power shall beat in atoms mountain high

There was an Old Person of Twickenham,
Who whipped his four horses to quicken 'em;
When they stood on one leg, he said faintly, " I beg
We may go back directly to Twickenham."

Break forth in joy my soul the sea retires
Its waters cease to roll across my head
I feel within new kindling of the fires
That seemed but forever lost and dead
Awake give forth thy joy with voice of song
There is no death for him who walks with God
Obey and shalt in the land He gives live long
And none shall lay thy head beneath the sod
Awake to sin is sleep death is the night
That round the spirit when it sins
The morning comes rise witness the delight
With which the ransomed soul the day begins
Come for the freedom waits thy spirit too