The American Songster, Song

One morning young Roger accosted me thus— Come here, pretty maiden, and give me a buss, Lord! fellow, said I, mind your plough and your cart; Yes, I thank you for nothing, thank you for nothing, thank you for nothing, with all my heart.

Well, then, to be sure, he grew civil enough, He gave me a box, with a paper of snuff: I took it, I own, yet had still so much art, To cry, thank you for nothing with all my heart.

He said, if so be he might make me his wife— Good Lord! I was never so dash'd in my life; Yet could not help laughing to see the fool start, When I thank'd him for nothing with all my heart.

Soon after, however, he gain'd my consent, And with him, on Sunday, to chapel I went; But said, 'twas my goodness more than his desert, Not to thank him for nothing with all my heart.

The parson cry'd, child, you must after me say, And then talk'd of honour, and love, and obey; But faith, when his reverence came to that part, There I thank'd him for nothing with all my heart.

At night our brisk neighbours the stocking would throw,— I must not tell tales, but I know what I know; Young Roger confesses I cur'd all his smart, And I thank'd him for something with all my heart.