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'Twas the twenty-ninth of May, 'twas a holiday, Four and twenty tailors set out to hunt a snail; Tho snail put forth his horns, and roared like a bull, Away ran the tailors, and catch the snail who wull. |
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Little King Boggen he built a fine hall, Pie-crust and pastry-crust, that was the wall; The windows were made of black-puddings and white, And filated with pan-cakes—you ne'er saw the like. |
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Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily jump the style, boys,
A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad one tires in a mile, boys. |
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