Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,
As if something was the matter—
While the woodlands all are ringing,
And the birds forget their singing.
And away to heaven go winging
Of their flight to hear the clatter,
Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,
Which continues so, till coming
To a straight line, when the humming
Is so mixed up with the strumming,