Classic Poem

When, towards the summer's close,
Lanes are dry,
And unclipt the hedgethorn rows,
There we fly!

While the harvest waggons pass
With their load,
Shedding corn upon the grass
By the road.

In a flock we follow them,
On and on,
Seize a wheat-ear by the stem,
And are gone. . . .

With our funny little song,
Thus you may
Often see us flit along,