From Hodgson's New Skylark; or, Theatrical budget of harmony ... by M. Bryant (London: Hodgson & Co., 1823), page 22: OLD KING COLE. As Sung by Miss Copeland, at the Surrey Theatre, in Harlequin Hoax. 1. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He call’d for his bottle, and he called for his glass, And he called for his fiddlers three. And every fiddler had a fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he; "Tweedle dee, tweedle dee," says the fiddler, And so merry shall they be; For none there are that can compare With the sons of harmony. 2. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And he called for his harpers three; And every harper had a harp, And a very fine harp had he. "Twang, twang, twang, twang," says the harper; "Tweedle dee, tweedle dee," says the fiddler; And so merry, &c. 3. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And he call’d for his fifers three; And every fifer had a fife, And a very fine fife had he. "Toodle loo, loodle loo,” says the fifer, And so merry, &c. 4. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And he call’d for his drummers three; And every drummer had a drum, And a very fine drum had he. "Rub a dub, rub a dub," says the drummer, And so merry, &c. 5. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And he call’d for his trumpeters three; And every trumpeter had a trumpet, And a very tine trumpet had he. "Ran ta tan, ran ta tan," says the trumpeter, And so merry, &c. 6. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And he call’d for his tailors three; And every tailor had a needle, And a very fine needle had he. "In and out, through the coat," says the tailor, And so merry, &c. 7. Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And he call’d for his cobblers three; And every cobbler had an awl, And a very fine awl had he. "Bore a hole through the sole," says the cobbler; "In and out, through the coat," says the tailor; "Ran ta tan, ran ta ran," says the trumpeter; "Rub a dub, rub a dub," says the drummer; "Toodle loo, toodle loo," says the fifer; "Twang, twang, twang, twang," says the harper; "Twcedle dee, tweedle dee," says the fiddler; And so merry we will be; For none there are, who can compare, With the sons of harmony!
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