He will hop to a barn,
And to keep himself warm,
Will hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
Away, pretty Robin, fly home to your nest,
To make you my captive I still should like best,
And feed you with worms and with bread:
Your eyes are so sparkling, your feathers so soft,
Your little wings flutter so pretty aloft,
And your breast is all cover’d with red.
When I was a little boy, my mother kept me in,
Now I am a great boy and fit to serve the king;
I can handle a musket, I can smoke a pipe,
I can kiss a pretty girl at ten o’clock at night.
Mary had a pretty bird,
Feathers bright and yellow,
Slender legs, upon my word
He was a pretty fellow.
The sweetest notes he always sung,
Which much delighted Mary,
And often where the cage was hung,
She stood to hear Canary.