And the boy ne’er grows a villain who keeps whistling all the while,—
Though he whistle out of tune.
What cares he for fickle fortune,—what the fashion may bestow?
In his little barefoot kingdom royalty in rags may go.
With an apple in his pocket and another in his mouth,
Cares not how the wind is blowing, whether north or whether south;
For he has no crops a-growing, has no ships upon the sea;
And he keeps right on a-whistling, whate’er the tune may be,—
For he whistles out of tune.
’Tis the early smile of Summer creeping o’er the face of June,