HINTY, MINTY.
Hinty, Minty, Irish maid,
Picks roses sweet in briar’s shade;
On higher briar, by the rock,
Are ten Sparrows in a flock,
That sit and sing
By cooling spring,
When shoot one! shoot two!
Comes sportsman Tom in jacket blue.
O, U, T—out!—away they go on nimble wings,
Over the hills,
And through the dells,
Where Minty dwells,
With many pretty things.
Yet strike one! strike two!
From out the flock, eight only flew,
And two are now but game.
O, cruel Tom, let birdies be,
And blithely sing from bush and tree.
Come here, my bonnie,
Come here to me;
Rosy cheeked apples
You shall have three—
All full of honey,
They dropped from the tree,
Like your bonny self—
All the sweeter that they’re wee.