There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
  Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good,
  And when she was bad she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs,
When her parents, unawares,
  ...

There was a small boy of Quebec,
Who was buried in snow to his neck;
  When they said. “Are you friz?”
  He replied, “Yes, I is—
But we don’t call this cold in Quebec.”