HAPPY little creature!
For I think you such,
Clinging in the tree-tops,
Twigs within your clutch;
Now a dew-drop sipping;
Now leave off, and sing,
Pouring forth shrill whistles,
O, how like a king!
All the fields you gaze on,
These for you exist;
Yours the season's bringings.
Whatsoe'er you list.
You the farmer's darling,
Naught from him you take;
Welcomed by all mortals,
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