Soaring high up in the bright blue sky,

Can't keep track of him if you try;

Flitting around in the pasture lot,

Likes to be friendly, rather than not;

Dancing along on the old rail fence,

Sunshine and flowers where the woods commence;

Got so he almost talks to me;

Head a-nodding, he says, says he—

Clover and buttercups just seem to try

Coaxing him up in the meadow to fly;

Bees hunting honey keep buzzing around,

Seem to know best where the sweetest is found,

Almost forget when a-hearing him sing

What kind of honey they all came to bring;

Pert and saucy as he can be,

Tail a-flitting, he says, says he—

Wings jet black and glossy as silk,

Waistcoat a-gleaming as white as milk;

Dainty and slender, quicker than light,

First in the morning, last one at night,

Perched on the post of the barn-yard gate,

Singing his sweetest to waken his mate;

Dressing his feathers and winking at me,

Mincing around, he says, says he—