He is "proud of his feathers," so I have been told,
And I half believe what people say.
His wife is a beauty, he's fond of her, too;
He calls her his "Judy;" I like it, don't you?
And he sings every day all the long summer through,
Yet he is not a bit of a bore.
For he's a musician of wonderful power;
I could list to his beautiful voice by the hour,
As he sings to his wife in their green, shady bower
In the elm tree that shadows my door.