The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle
In the gloom o’ the gloaming athwart the glade:
The zephyr sighs soft on Popòcatapètl,
And Auster is taking it cool in the shade:
Sing, hey for a gutta serenade!
Not mine to stir up a storied pole,
No noses snip with a bluggy blade—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul?
Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal?
With Everton toffee thee persuade?