Little Johnny Horner looked forlorner than a mourner
In a corner with a Christmas pie...
He'd to pause, just because, that pie hurt his jaws
He said, 'I'll eat it or die.'
Lifted the lid, yes, he did, plucky kid
'I'm a good, good boy,' he cried
And with his thuimb he stabbed a plum
And that plum disagreed, and he died

Oh, yes, he did... Oh, yes, he did
On his tombstone there's an R.I.P.
And he's saying, so they're saying
Where nobody thinks of playing
'We are waiting for the Robert E. Lee.'

Little Missie Muffit said, 'I luf it when I rough it
On a tuffit eating curds and whey'
But we find as she dined, that she'd changed her mind
As ladies do every day
Faint she became when a tame spider came
On her head it started to swim
A young man who was passing brought her two
One for her and one for him

Oh, yes, he did... Oh, yes, he did
And at church they soon tied the knot
And to a little house he took her,
But they got no filthy lucre
So they had to do the Turkey Trot.

Rub-a-dub-a-dubbard, mother hubbard fairly blubbered
At the cupboard with her poor dog John
On a chair stood the pair, and the shelf was bare
So the poor doggie got none
'Our number's up,' said the pup, 'Naught to sup,'
Off he went to the butcher man
He saw a chop hung up inside the shop
Quickly seized it, then off he ran

Oh,yes, he did... Oh, yes, he did
And it proves little doggie's are wide
And it's hinted when he sprinted
That although the butcher squinted
It was not the Gadby Glide.

Sing hey-didd-le-didd-le, do a twiddle in the middle
Of your fiddle, play a ragtime tune
Listen, now, what's the row
There's a 'Hitchy Cow'
Been and jumped over the moon
Milk is so high we can't buy, you and I
And the rates are high also
Consols they are the only things today
That are low, that are low, very low

We're all in rags... we're all in rags
In this world of grief and despair
So Yiddle, take your fiddle
Into Parliament and twiddle
For they're very fond of twaddle round there.

Taffy was a Welshman, a Welshman, what a Welshman
And that Welshman was a wicked thief
From my house, from my house, quiet as a mouse
He stole a big piece of beaf
Came back alone and unknown took a bone
Every week he repeats this feat
And Sunday's joint seems his especial point
But as long as he only takes the meat

Oh, I don't care... No I don't care
Though that Welshman raises my gorge
And his methods may be funny, still
He hasn't got any money
Like his rag-a-time-a-friend-a Lloyd George.

Performed by Barclay Gammon (1867-1915)
From Music Hall Lyrics Collection
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