Address to the robin

Little Robin, pray draw near,
‘Tis your Phoebe that is here;
Pretty bird, then come to me,
Come and sing sweet tweedle-dee.

Now the frosty wind doth blow,
Now the earth is white with snow;
For my Robin all around
Crumbs I’ll scatter on the ground.

See how quickly he doth hop,
Glad to fill his little crop;
But should I approach too near,
Then he’d fly away for fear.

Foolish Robin, why afraid
Of a harmless little maid?
Here no trap or cage is found,
Here no cat is prowling round.

Then my bird with scarlet breast,
Come, and on my window rest;
Pretty Robin, come to me,
Come and sing sweet tweedle-dee.