Oh come, my love, we'll wander, you and I.
Here the six ceased to regard the sky, split into pairs and by pantomimic gesture invited one another to wander.
Across the hills we'll go,
While birds sing soft and low.
The singer paused for an instant, while the six, now formed into a semicircle, hummed together softly a suggestion of distant nightingales. Not an imitation—that would be too banal—but a suggestion. In point of fact I thought I detected the air of "The Little Grey Home in the West."
While the silver moon adorns the summer sky.
After a brief pause, brightened by what are vulgarly termed twiddly bits on the piano, the soloist sang the chorus, softly and appealing, with a sort of treacly intonation:—
Moon, moon, moon,
We'll come soon, soon,
Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.