Summer weaves thy verdant crown.

Sipping o’er the pearly lawn,

The fragrant nectar of the dawn,

Little tales thou lov’st to sing,

Tales of mirth—an insect king.

Thine the treasures of the field,

All thy own the seasons yield;

Nature paints thee for the year,

Songster to the shepherds dear;

Innocent, of placid fame,