My little Bird, how canst thou sit; And sing amidst so many Thorns! Let me but hold upon thee get, My Love with Honour thee adorns. Thou art at present little worth; Five farthings none will give for thee. But prethee little Bird come forth, Thou of more value art to me. 'Tis true, it is Sun-shine to day, To morrow Birds will have a Storm; My pretty one, come thou away, My Bosom then shall keep thee warm. Thou subject art to cold o' nights, When darkness is thy covering; At days thy danger 's great by Kites, How canst thou then sit there and sing? Thy food is scarce and scanty too, 'Tis Worms and Trash which thou dost eat; Thy present state I pity do, Come, I'll provide thee better meat. I'll feed thee with white Bread and Milk, And Sugar-plums, if them thou crave; I'll cover thee with finest Silk, That from the cold I may thee save. My Father's Palace shall be thine, Yea, in it thou shalt sit and sing; My little Bird, if thou'lt be mine, The whole year round shall be thy Spring. I'll teach thee all the Notes at Court; Unthought of Musick thou shalt play; And all that thither do resort Shall praise thee for it ev'ry day. I'll keep thee safe with Cat and Cur, No manner o' harm shall come to thee; Yea, I will be thy Succourer, My Bosom shall thy Cabbin be. But lo, behold, the Bird is gone: These Charmings would not make her yield: The Child's left at the Bush alone, The Bird flies yonder o'er the Field. |