Clover and buttercups just seem to try
Coaxing him up in the meadow to fly;
Bees hunting honey keep buzzing around,
Seem to know best where the sweetest is found,
Almost forget when a-hearing him sing
What kind of honey they all came to bring;
Pert and saucy as he can be,
Tail a-flitting, he says, says he—
"Bob-o-link, o-link, o-link."
Wings jet black and glossy as silk,