I Thought It Was Queer

As I lean'd o'er a gate one Midsummer's eve. When the sky in the brook look'd so clear, Young Robin came slily and tugg'd at my sleeve, And I could not help thinking it queer.

He patted my cheek, and he play'd with my hand, And he gave such a whimsical leer, Then talk'd about things I could scarce understand, That I could not help thinking it queer.

Now all of a sudden he let his thoughts loose, And he ask'd if to church I would steer, I thought him a whimsical mad-headed goose, For his talking of matters so queer.

I meant to have chid him for what he had said, When he whisper'd so soft in my ear, That if I had check'd him my heart would have bled, For it panted and flutter'd so queer.

How long have you lov'd me, pray Robin, said I? When he answer'd, "a calendar year;" I then was resolv'd with his suit to comply, Although it seemed hasty and queer.

Folks thought it so odd, that an hour or so, Should have made me so ready appear; But many a lass who have answer'd with—no, Have died like old maidens so queer!