When I crept into th’ nook wi’ my sewin’, My mother looked reawnd so sly; Hoo know’d I could see across th’ coppice, Where Robin comes ridin’ by; Then hoo coom to me, smilin’ an’ tootin’, An’ whisperin’, “Heaw doesto feel? Dost think I should send for a doctor?” But, th’ doctor hoo knows reet weel. _Chorus_—It’s nought i’th world but Robin. My feyther sits dozin’ i’th corner, He’s dreamin’ o’th harvest day; When Robin comes in for his daughter, Eh, what’ll my feyther say? Th’ rosebuds are peepin’ i’th garden; An’ th’ blossom’s o’th apple tree; Oh, heaw will life’s winter time find us,— Yon Robin o’ mine, an’ me? _Chorus_—For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin. Then, hey for kisses an’ blushes, An’ hurryin’ to an’ fro; An’ hey for sly, sweet whispers, That nob’dy but me mun know! Then, hey for rings, an’ ribbins, An’ bonnets, an’ posies fine! An’ eh,—it’s o’ in a flutter,— This little fond heart o’ mine! _Chorus._ For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin; His e’en ne’er twinkle’t so breet, As they did when he meazur’t my finger For th’ little gowd ring last neet. [Illustration] BONNY NAN. Heigh, Ned, owd mon, aw feel as fain As ony brid ’at sings i’ May; Come, sit tho deawn, aw’ll spend a creawn, We’n have a roozin’ rant to-day; Let’s doance an’ sing; aw’ve bought a ring, For bonny Nan i’th Owler dale; Then heigh for fun; my mopin’s done! An’ neaw aw’m brisk as bottle’t ale! Oh, guess, owd brid, What’s beawn to be; For I like Nan,— An’ hoo likes me! Twelve months i’ weeds, when Robin deed, Hoo look’d so deawn, wi’ ne’er a smile Aw couldn’t find i’ heart or mind To cheep o’ weddin’ for a while; Aw thought aw’d bide; but still aw sighed For th’ mournin’ cleawd to clear away; Aw watched her e’en groo breet again,— A layrock tootin’ eawt for day! Neaw, guess, owd brid, What’s beawn to be; For I like Nan,— An’ hoo likes me! Oh, Nanny’s fair, an’ trim, an’ rare; A modest lass, an’ sweet to see; Her e’en are blue, her heart it’s true,— But Nanny’s hardly twenty-three; An’ life it’s strung, when folk are yung; An’ waitin’ lunger wouldno do; For, th’ moor-end lads, hoo turns their yeds,— Hoo’s bin a widow lung enoo! Then guess, owd brid, What’s beawn to be; For I like Nan,— An’ hoo likes me!