The Messenger

Up to the Ceiling

Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Backward and forward, round and round;
Dance, little baby, and mother will sing,
With the merry chorus, ding, ding, ding!

Here in the morning we’re starting so soon,
Give us a message, we’ll ride to the moon,
Straight through the meadows and hop o’er the stile,
And we will but charge you a farthing a mile.
A farthing a mile! a farthing a mile!
We will but charge you a farthing a mile.