There was an Old Man of Messina, Whose daughter was named Opsibeena; She wore a small wig, and rode out on a pig, To the perfect delight of Messina.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.

When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights.

There was an old man of Orleans, Who was given to eating of beans; Till once out of sport, he swallowed a quart, That dyspeptic old man of Orleans.

It takes a long time to make a painter - even with a good artist's education - but without one it tries the patience of Job; it is a great thing if one does not go backward.

There was a Young Lady of Poole, Whose soup was excessively cool; So she put it to boil, by the aid of some oil, That ingenious Young Lady of Poole.

There was an Old Man of Messina, Whose daughter was named Opsibeena; She wore a small wig, and rode out on a pig, To the perfect delight of Messina.