“Over the hill and over the dale”
Over the hill and over the dale,
And over the bourn to Dawlish-
Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale
And gingerbread nuts are smallish.
Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill
And kicked up her petticoats fairly.
Says I, “I’ll be Jack if you will be Jill.”
So she sat on the grass debonairly.
“Here’s somebody coming, here’s somebody coming!”
Says I, “‘Tis the wind at a parley.”
So without any fuss any hawing and humming,
She lay on the grass debonairly.
“Here’s somebody here and here’s somebody there!”
Says I, “Hold your tongue you young gipsy.”
So she held her tongue and lay plump and fair
And dead as a Venus tipsy.
O who wouldn’t hie to Dawlish fair?
O who wouldn’t stop in a meadow,
O who would not rumple the daisies there,
And make the wild fern for a bed do!
(Read in a spirit of sillyness by Dean Temple on the June 30, 2005 podcast.)