I never want a song,
From my birds in the old beech-trees;
I have singers all the night,
And with the morning bright,
Come my busy humming fat brown bees.
When I’ve nothing else to do,
With the nursing birds I sit,
And we laugh at the cuckoo
A-cuckooing to her tit!
Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!