Come, see how the ladies ride,
All so pretty, all so gay,
In their beauty, in their pride,
Prancing horses silver shod,
All so pretty, all so gay;
Princely feathers bend and nod,
Over the mountain, through the bog--
That's the way the farmers go,
Hear the news and see the show;
Pumpkins round strapped on behind,
Eggs in baskets, too, you'll find,
Soon to change for calico--
That's the way the farmers go.
Bells a-jingle, fingers tingle,
Ditto toes, likewise nose.
The wind doth blow,
And all the snow
Around doth scatter;
Our teeth they chatter,
But that's no matter--
The song rings clear
With a Happy New Year,
And never a mutter,
As we fly in our cutter.
[Trot to Boston]
Jingle, jar, horse car,
Leave you near, or take you far.
Take a seat upon my lap,
Cling on, swing on by the strap;
Here a stop, and there a start--
Let me off, I'll take a cart!
Sword and pistols by their side,
And that's the way the officers ride!
Boots stretched out like a letter V,
we belong to the cavalry!
Over the hurdles after the hounds,
tirra-la! the hunting-horn sounds--
Dashaway, slashaway, reckless and fast!
Crashaway, smashaway, tumbled at last!