Mary Lincoln and I will be singing so merry.
Chorus—Cordially, cordially,
Envy me, envy me,
Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!
Just act your pleasure, sir.
When the leaves on the trees and the flowers on the clover
Are withered and faded, and Summer is over;
When the grass on the meadows is leveled and gone,
We will sing our last sonnet and leave you alone.
We will fly far away to the rice and the cotton;