The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,

     And so is the cat-a-mountain,

The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,

     And the frog peeps out o' the fountain;

The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play,

     The spindle is now a turning;

The moon it is red, and the stars are fled,

     But all the sky is a-burning:



The ditch is made, and our nails the spade,

With pictures full, of wax and of wool;

Their livers I stick, with needles quick;

There lacks but the blood, to make up the flood.

     Quickly, Dame, then bring your part in,

     Spur, spur upon little Martin,

     Merrily, merrily, make him fail,

     A worm in his mouth, and a thorn in his tail,

     Fire above, and fire below,

     With a whip in your hand, to make him go.