What shall I do when the Summer troubles

What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrup

Drop a Tune on me —

When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup

What will become of me?

Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets

And the Berries stare

How can I bear their jocund Faces

Thou from Here, so far?

'Twouldn't afflict a Robin —

All His Goods have Wings —

I — do not fly, so wherefore

My Perennial Things?