On a tree by a river a little tom-tit Sang 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow!' And I said to him, 'Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow?' 'Is it a weakness of intellect, birdie? I cried, 'Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?' With a shake of his poor little head he replied, 'Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!'
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair - The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing - And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make nor pair, nor build, nor sing.