Tinkle, Tinkle, Mister Ninkum,
I am merry, Bob O’ Linkum!
Prithee, tell me what’s the matter,
That you’re making such a clatter—
Can’t you leave us, honest folks,
To sing our songs and crack our jokes?
It is cruel, Mr. Ninkum,
Thus to bother Bob O’Linkum—
I had thought the meadow mine,
With its blossoms all so fine,
And I made my little nest
’Neath the clover, all so blest.
But you come, oh naughty Ninkum,
All unheeding Bob O’Linkum—
And you swing your saucy blade
Where my little nest is made—
And you cut the blooming clover,
Which did wrap my young ones over.
Get you gone, oh ugly Ninkum—
Leave the field to Bob O’Linkum;
Let him on his light wing hover
O’er the summer scented clover—
Let him sing his merry song,
And he’ll thank you all day long.