In meadows where the ripened grain
In golden stacks awaits the flail.
A little tuft of feathers grey
That snaps its bill in eager glee
When e’er a fly is caught on wing,
Full forty times calls out Phoebe.
When fragrant dews fall from the sky—
And sinks the sun behind the hill,
From dark’ning woods rings out the cry,
O Whip poor Will—O Whip poor Will.