1 O Robin-a-Thrush he married a wife, With a hoppety, moppety, mow, now, She proved to be the plague of his life, With a hig-jig-jiggety, ruffety petticoat, Robin-a-Thrush cries mow, now!
2 She never gets up till twelve o'clock, Puts on her gown and above it her smock.
3 She sweeps the house but once a year; The reason is that the brooms are dear.
4 She milks her cows but once a week, And that's what makes her butter sweet.
5 The butter she made in an old man's boot; For want of a churn she clapp'd in her foot.
6 Her cheese when made was put on the shelf, And it never was turned till it turned of itself.
7 It turned and turned till it walked on the floor, It stood upon legs and walked to the door.
8 It walked till it came to Banbury Fair; The dame followed after upon a grey mare.
9 This song it was made for gentlemen,
If you want any more you must sing it again.