Under the window is my garden,
Where sweet, sweet flowers grow;
And in the pear-tree dwells a robin,
The dearest bird I know.
Tho' I peep out betimes in the morning,
Still the flowers are up the first;
Then I try and talk to the robin,
And perhaps he'd chat—if he durst.
13
Will you be my little wife,
If I ask you? Do!
I'll buy you such a Sunday frock,
A nice umbrella, too.
And you...
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