The Stars and the Cookie Jar

I like to sing to my daughter. We all like to sing to babies, right? No big deal.

Except the songs I know, while they may have pretty choruses, all go kind of wrong at some point and force me to ad lib.

Many's the lad fought on that day,
Well the Claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.

Uh... better just hum that one, then.
 

Way down yonder, down in the meadow,

There's a poor wee little lamby.

The bees and the butterflies pickin' at its eyes,

The poor wee thing cried for her mammy.

Um, whoops. All you get is the chorus there, kid.

He made harp pins of her fingers fair
with a hey ho and a bonny o
He made harp strings of her golden hair
the swans swim so bonny o
He made a harp of her breast bone
with a hey ho and a bonny o

AGH. No. NOBODY'S BEING MADE INTO HARP PARTS BY SATAN'S LUTHIER, BABY GIRL!

She took a knife both long and sharp,
Fal the dal the di do,
And stabb'd her babes unto the heart,
Down by the greenwood side-o.

*whistles*

When he was sixteen, a married man was he, 
When he was seventeen,  was father to a son,
When he was eighteen the grass grew over him,
And death put an end to his growing.


Not just dead, but an example of bad life choices!

So. Has anyone else noticed this?  Should I just stick with "Moar Silly Songs By Some Creepy Semi-Pedos Called the Wiggles" ?