But if you wanted her to work
She never could be found;
And, mebby, if you scoured the farm
And all the country round,
You'd find her sittin' in a tree
A-whistlin' o' the tune
She'd heered the medder lark a-singin'
To the skies o' June.
And so one nite I called 'em in,
I think jest arter tea.