THE SONG OF BOB LINCOLN.
BY UNCLE TIM.
It was a beautiful morning, quite early in May,
The fathers all plowing, the children all play;
The mothers all spinning, as busy as bees,
And the birds quite as busy all round in the trees;
While some were singing songs over and over,
Sometimes in the tree-tops, then down in the clover,
Young Robert was trying his very best notes,
And the strength of his song by the length of his throat.
Chorus—Envy me, envy me,