LITTLE MASTER QUIG.

BY MARY A BARR.

This tale's of little Master Quig,

Who, being little, wasn't big,

And many said, who understood,

That, being bad, he wasn't good.

When from his school he ran away,

Most people thought he didn't stay;

And I have heard, from those who know,

When he ran fast, it wasn't slow.

He always studied when compelled,

And always staid when he was held,

And always slept when not awake,

And left the thing he could not take.

To go to sea one day he planned,

And being there, was not on land,

And so stuck on a bar—alas!

For, being stuck, he could not pass.

The dark night found him in a fright,

For, being dark, it was not light.

The big waves rose and filled the boat,

And being full, it could not float.

And so, as I have heard it said,

They found him in the morning dead,

And men of sense do still maintain

He never more was seen again.

Hey, diddle, diddle,

The cat and the fiddle;

The cow jumped over the moon;

The little dog laughed to see such sport;

And the dish ran away with the spoon.