John Jones,A PARODY ON BEN BOLT.Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,And went into fits at your frown.In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,Where the goslins are learning to swim,Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,And, by a mistake, fell in.Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,That winds at the foot of the hill,Together we’ve seen the old mare go,Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,The rafters fell on to a cow,And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,Are lords of the cider mill now.Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,Which stood on the path to the barn,And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,The lightning the tree overcome,And down where the onions and carrots once grew,Grows thistles as big as your thumb.There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,They have changed from the good to the bad,And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,I’d like to go home to my dad.Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,And yet I believe I am your only true friend,John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.
John Jones,A PARODY ON BEN BOLT.Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,And went into fits at your frown.In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,Where the goslins are learning to swim,Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,And, by a mistake, fell in.Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,That winds at the foot of the hill,Together we’ve seen the old mare go,Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,The rafters fell on to a cow,And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,Are lords of the cider mill now.Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,Which stood on the path to the barn,And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,The lightning the tree overcome,And down where the onions and carrots once grew,Grows thistles as big as your thumb.There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,They have changed from the good to the bad,And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,I’d like to go home to my dad.Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,And yet I believe I am your only true friend,John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.
John Jones,A PARODY ON BEN BOLT.Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,And went into fits at your frown.In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,Where the goslins are learning to swim,Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,And, by a mistake, fell in.Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,That winds at the foot of the hill,Together we’ve seen the old mare go,Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,The rafters fell on to a cow,And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,Are lords of the cider mill now.Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,Which stood on the path to the barn,And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,The lightning the tree overcome,And down where the onions and carrots once grew,Grows thistles as big as your thumb.There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,They have changed from the good to the bad,And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,I’d like to go home to my dad.Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,And yet I believe I am your only true friend,John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.
Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,And went into fits at your frown.In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,Where the goslins are learning to swim,Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,And, by a mistake, fell in.
Oh, don’t you remember Lame Sally, John Jones,
Lame Sally whose nose was so brown,
Who look’d like a clam if you gave her a smile,
And went into fits at your frown.
In the old goose pond in the orchard, John Jones,
Where the goslins are learning to swim,
Lame Sally went fishing one wet, windy day,
And, by a mistake, fell in.
Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,That winds at the foot of the hill,Together we’ve seen the old mare go,Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,The rafters fell on to a cow,And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,Are lords of the cider mill now.
Under old Simmon’s brush fence, John Jones,
That winds at the foot of the hill,
Together we’ve seen the old mare go,
Grinding cider at Appleton’s mill.
The mill-wheel is oven wood now, John Jones,
The rafters fell on to a cow,
And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze,
Are lords of the cider mill now.
Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,Which stood on the path to the barn,And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,The lightning the tree overcome,And down where the onions and carrots once grew,Grows thistles as big as your thumb.
Do you mind the pig-pen of logs, John Jones,
Which stood on the path to the barn,
And the shirt-button tree, where they grow on the bough,
Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn.
The pig-pen has gone to decay, John Jones,
The lightning the tree overcome,
And down where the onions and carrots once grew,
Grows thistles as big as your thumb.
There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,They have changed from the good to the bad,And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,I’d like to go home to my dad.Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,And yet I believe I am your only true friend,John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.
There is a change in the things I love, John Jones,
They have changed from the good to the bad,
And I feel in my stomach, to tell the truth,
I’d like to go home to my dad.
Twelve months, twenty has pass’d, John Jones,
Since I knock’d off your nose with a rail,
And yet I believe I am your only true friend,
John Jones, of the Hurricane Gale.