0 "where are you going,
My pretty maiden fair, With your red rosy cheeks
And your coal-black hair ?—
I'm going a-milking—
Kind sir, says she— And it's dabbling in the dew
Where you'll find me !
TflE King of France, with twenty thousand men, Went up the hill, and thea came down again j The King of Spain, with twenty thousand sacre, Climb'd the same hill the French had climb'd before.