  Now little Billy is gone to the kirk, And so merrily he doth sing: I catch’d the parson in bed with my mother, But I woud’nt tell it for any thing. Thou art a liar, says Mess John, I never did thy mother no harm: I never was in her house in my life, But once or twice for a penorth of barm. Thou art a liar, said little Billy, As sure as thou’rt on thy knees at prayer: Did’nt I catch thee in bed with my mother, And did’nt I tumble thee down the stairs. Thou art a liar, says Mess John, Thou shalt be whipp’d with a rod of birk; And shalt be set in the stocks to morn, For telling such lies o’ the kirk. |
|
