Down behind the grain together,

In the sunny summer weather,

It is pleasant, on my word,

Even if we lose the bird.

Shall we catch him? None can tell us,

They are such suspicious fellows,—

Birds of every note and feather,

In the golden summer weather.

There,—you stirred, and scared him.—Who?

It was but the wind that blew,

Trampling through the rustling grain:

See! he lifts his head again.

Whether he will go or stay,

Neither he nor we can say,—

Of the same uncertain feather,

Creatures of the summer weather.