And nibble, nibbling till ’tis night.
But when a storm is gathering fast,
See how they’ll seek some shelter’d cove;
How cunningly they’ll shun the blast,
Beneath a hazel-hedge, or grove.
When down at night they gently lie,
Unconscious where the light hath flown,
It may be plann’d for all to die
Before the morrow’s afternoon.
’Tis so!—a sound doth ’lectrify