Oranges & Lemons

Oranges and lemons, says the bells of St. Clemen's;
You owe me five farthings, says the bells of St. Martin's;
When will you pay me, says the bells of Old Bailey;
When I grow rich, says the bells of Shoreditch;
When will that be? says the bells of Stepney;
I do not know, says the great bell of Bow.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

Walter Crane

Walter Crane was an English artist and book illustrator, considered to be one of the most prolific and influential children's book creators of his generation. Born on August 15, 1845, and passing away on March 14, 1915, he was part of the Arts and Crafts movement and is known for his innovative contributions to children's literature. His work often combined art and poetry, aiming to educate and delight young readers.

Walter Crane

My Pretty Maid

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Eagle And The Crow

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

King Cole

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

The Three Bears.

Walter Crane, Simple Poetry

English

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Oranges And Lemons




Oranges And Lemons.


                Gay go up, and gay go down
                To ring the bells of London Town.



                Bull's eyes and targets,
                Say the bells of St. Marg'ret's.

                Brickbats and tiles,
                Say the bells of St. Giles'.

                Pancakes and fritters,
                Say the bells of St. Peter's.

                Two sticks and an apple,
                Say the bells at Whitechapel.

Leonard Brooke

Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXXI. Games.

        [At the conclusion, the captive is privately asked if he will have oranges or lemons (the two leaders of the arch having previously agreed which designation shall belong to each), and he goes behind the one he may chance to name. When all are thus divided into two parties, they conclude the game by trying to pull each other beyond a certain line.]

    Gay go up and gay go down,
    To ring the bells of London town.

    Bull's eyes and targets,
    Say the bells of St. Marg'ret's.

    Brickbats and tiles,
    Say the bells of St. Giles'.

    Halfpence and farthings,
    Say the bells of St. Martin's.

    Oranges and lemons,
    Say the bells of St. Clement's.

    Pancakes and fritters,
    Say the bells of St. Peter's.

    Two...

Unknown

An Alphabet Of Old Friends.

A

A carrion crow sat on an oak,
Watching a tailor shape his cloak.
"Wife, bring me my old bent bow,
That I may shoot yon carrion crow."
The tailor he shot and missed his mark,
And shot his own sow quite through the heart.
"Wife, wife, bring brandy in a spoon,
For our old sow is in a swoon."

B

Ba, ba, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full.

One for my master,
One for my dame,
But none for the little boy
That cries in the lane.

C

Hen.    Cock, cock, I have la-a-ayed!
Cock. Hen, hen, that's well sa-a-ayed!
Hen.    Although I have to go bare-footed every day-a-ay!
Cock. (Con spirito.) Sell your eggs and buy shoes!
                 ...

Walter Crane

St Paul's Steeple

Upon Paul's steeple stands a tree
As full of apples as may be,
The little boys of London town
They run with hooks to pull them down;
And then they run from hedge to hedge
Until they come to London Bridge.

Walter Crane

An Alphabet Of Old Friends

A

A carrion crow sat on an oak,
Watching a tailor shape his cloak.
"Wife, bring me my old bent bow,
That I may shoot yon carrion crow."
The tailor he shot and missed his mark,
And shot his own sow quite through the heart.
"Wife, wife, bring brandy in a spoon,
For our old sow is in a swoon."


B

Ba, ba, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full.
One for my master,
One for my dame,
But none for the little boy
That cries in the lane.


C

Hen.    Cock, cock, I have la-a-ayed!
Cock. Hen, hen, that's well sa-a-ayed!
Hen.    Although I have to go bare-footed every day-a-ay!
Cock. (Con spirito.) Sell your eggs and buy shoes!
Sell your e...

Walter Crane

The Fool Rings His Bells

Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee;
And thou, poor Innocency;
And Love - a lad with broken wing;
And Pity, too:
The Fool shall sing to you,
As Fools will sing.

Aye, music hath small sense.
And a time's soon told,
And Earth is old,
And my poor wits are dense;
Yet I have secrets, - dark, my dear,
To breathe you all: Come near.
And lest some hideous listener tells,
I'll ring the bells.

They're all at war!
Yes, yes, their bodies go
'Neath burning sun and icy star
To chaunted songs of woe,
Dragging cold cannon through a mire
Of rain and blood and spouting fire,
The new moon glinting hard on eyes
Wide with insanities!

Hush!... I use words
I hardly know the meaning of;
And the mute birds
Are glancing ...

Walter De La Mare