It was a beautiful morning, quite early in May,

The fathers all plowing, the children all play;

The mothers all spinning, as busy as bees,

And the birds quite as busy all round in the trees;

While some were singing songs over and over,

Sometimes in the tree-tops, then down in the clover,

Young Robert was trying his very best notes,

And the strength of his song by the length of his throat.

Chorus—Envy me, envy me,

 Cordially, cordially,

 Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!

 Just act your pleasure, sir.

Sometimes he was singing to Jemmy the farmer,

And then to Miss Alice, and trying to charm her;

Next moment he’d light on the top of a thistle,

And either be singing or trying to whistle:

Miss Alice, Miss Alice! it will give me much pleasure

To sing you a sonnet while I am at leisure.

I will sing you a good one, and very explicit,

And stop when I choose, or whenever you wish it.

Chorus—Certainly, certainly, etc.

While Jemmy is plowing and learning to whistle,

My wife is at home, in the shade of a thistle,

In a neat little nest, with a wild rose behind it.

You need not look for it, for you never can find it.

The farmer is plowing, and soon will be mowing;

While he’s cutting the daisies his corn will be growing.

When the heads on the barley are ripe, and the cherry,

Mary Lincoln and I will be singing so merry.

Chorus—Cordially, cordially,

Envy me, envy me,

Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!

Just act your pleasure, sir.

When the leaves on the trees and the flowers on the clover

Are withered and faded, and Summer is over;

When the grass on the meadows is leveled and gone,

We will sing our last sonnet and leave you alone.

We will fly far away to the rice and the cotton;

But let not our thistle and rose be forgotten.

We are certain to come again early in Spring,

And bring some choice music, which we promise to sing.

Chorus—Cordially, cordially,

Envy me, envy me,

Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!

Just act your pleasure, sir.