Nursery Rhyme. DLVIII. Natural History.

    Bobbin-a-Bobbin bent his bow,
    And shot at a woodcock and kill'd a yowe:
    The yowe cried ba, and he ran away,
    But never came back 'till midsummer-day.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DXXIX. Natural History.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CXXII. Scholastic.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXLI. Love And Matrimony.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLIV. Love And Matrimony.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Nursery Rhyme. DXLIX. Natural History.

    Little Bob Robin,
    Where do you live?
    Up in yonder wood, sir,
    On a hazel twig.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DXV. Natural History.

    All of a row,
    Bend the bow,
    Shot at a pigeon,
    And killed a crow.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DXVII. Natural History.

    There was an owl lived in an oak,
        Wisky, wasky, weedle;
    And every word he ever spoke
        Was fiddle, faddle, feedle.

    A gunner chanced to come that way,
        Wisky, wasky, weedle;
    Says he, "I'll shoot you, silly bird."
        Fiddle, faddle, feedle.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DXXVII. Natural History.

    Little Robin Red-breast
        Sat upon a rail:
    Niddle naddle went his head,
        Wiggle waggle went his tail.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DXLIII. Natural History.

    Cock Robin got up early,
        At the break of day,
    And went to Jenny's window,
        To sing a roundelay.

    He sang Cock Robin's love
        To the pretty Jenny Wren,
    And when he got unto the end,
        Then he began again.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. DLXXIII. Natural History.

    See, saw, Margery Daw,
    The old hen flew over the malt house,
    She counted her chickens one by one,
    Still she missed the little white one,
    And this is it, this is it, this is it.

Unknown