The first rhymes that I can remember to have read with a sense of delight were those of the old ballad of Chevy Chase.  I used to repeat them, when alone, until they used to make me feel as warlike as did the sight of Matthew Goy when he rode into the town with the news of a victory; or the array of the Gainsborough Loyal Volunteers, when they marched through the town, on exercise-days, to the sound of fife and drum.