When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest,
I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast;
And I think all the time how hot it must be
Over there where my master lies under the tree,
A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground,
Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around!
I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!
When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray,
And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way,