VII. RIPPLES.

Jolly, O, jolly, at eve, When the golden waves Are tumbling into the sun, And the silent air Is thinking of nothing, to run Down to the shore, Boys by the score, Into the hollow way Curved by the ebbing spray, Chasing him back to his watery den, Lightly, O, lightly he leaps out again. Backward, O, backward we run (Thinking-of-nothing-o fun), Jolly wet every one. Rare, O, rare, Nought can compare When the silent air Is thinking of nothing, to run, In thinking-of-nothing-o fun, Out on the ebbing wave, Chasing him back to his watery lair, Jolly wet every one, Thinking-of-nothing-o fun.

Jolly, O, jolly, at eve, When the golden waves Are tumbling into the sun, And the silent air Is thinking of nothing, to go, All in a row, A hundred or so, Manfully take a stand, Just on the edge of the land, Just where the pebbles and inrushing sea Battle, and rattle, and never agree, Solemnly, solemnly, O! Each his own pebble to throw, With a heigho! jolly heigho! Rare, O, rare, Nought can compare When the silent air Is thinking of nothing, to go, With a heigho! jolly heigho! Solemnly, solemnly, throw Pebbles and pebbles at our jolly foe, Hundreds of heads in a row, Thinking of nothing, heigho!