Dear little orioles rocked in the tree
By the sweet summer winds, waiting for me;
Waiting for mother the supper to bring;
O baby orioles, father will sing!
Father will sing as he sits on the bough,
Watching his babies wait supper just now.
Dear little downy brood, hearing the tune
All the bright Baltimores warble in June.
You must wear hoods of soft feathery black,
With a dark cape coming over your back.