When the meadows are wet with the sweet morning dew?
He's piping and calling, this ardent young lover,
And telling his tale the whole morning through,
What is it he says in the early sunlight?
"Bob White! Bob White!
Bob—Bob White!"
At noon, when the day god in wrath has descended,
With his swift golden arrows, on grain-field and hill;
And the birds of the morning their love songs have ended,
Then deep in the wood, and down by the rill