For why she was within; _With how do you do? and how do you do?_ _And how do you do agen?_ "My husband is a thresher, Who is her father dear, He'll give with her his blessing, Kind sir, you need not fear: He is of such good nature, That he would never lin," _With how do you do? and how do you do?_ _And how do you do agen?_ "For by your courteous carriage, You seem an honest man, You may have her in marriage, My husband he anon Will bid you very welcome, Tho' he be poor and thin," With how do you do? and how do you do?_ And how do you do agen?_ Her dad came home full weary, Alas! he could not choose; Her mother being merry, She told him all the news: (_lin_, hinder or stop.) Then he was mighty jovial too, His son did soon begin, _With how do you do? and how do you do?_ _And how do you do agen?_ Her parents being willing, All parties was agreed; Her portion thirty shilling, They married were with speed; Then Will the piper he did play, While others dance and sing; _With how do you do? and how do you do?_ _And how do you do agen?_ In pleasant recreation, They pass'd away the night, And likewise by relation, With her he takes delight, To walk abroad on holy-days, To visit kiff and kin: _With how do you do? and how do you do?_ _And how do you do agen?_ Then lusty Ralph and Robin, With many damsels gay, Did ride on Roan and Dobbin, To celebrate the day: When being met together, Their caps they off did fling, _With how do you do? and how do you do?_ _And how do you do agen?_ THE TREES THEY ARE SO HIGH |All the trees they are so high, The leaves they are so green, The day is past and gone, sweet-heart, That you and I have seen. It is cold winter's night, You and I must bide alone: Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing. O father, father dear, Great wrong to me is done, That I should married be this day, Before the set of sun. At the huffle of the gale, Here I toss and cannot sleep: Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing. O daughter, daughter dear, No wrong to thee is done, For I have married thee this day Unto a rich Lord's son. O the wind is on the thatch Here and I alone must weep: Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing. O father, father dear, If that you think it fit, Then send him to the school awhile, To be a year there yet. At the huffle of the gale Here I toss and cannot sleep: Whilst my pretty lad is young And is growing. To let the lovely ladies know They may not touch and taste, I'll bind a bunch of ribbons blue About his little waist,