Pink bag-pipes make for the bees,
Whose slogan is droning and drawling,
Where columbine scatters its bells
And the wild bleeding-heart its shells
O'er mosses and rocks of the dells
The brook of the forest is calling.
You can hear it under the hill
When the wind in the wood is still,
And, strokes of a fairy drill,
Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer.