The stur-dy bees went hum-ming by, Draw-ing sweet ho-ney from the clo-ver, Nor stir-red the yel-low But-ter-fly, For he was but an i-dle ro-ver.

He start-ed, and well he might, for he saw no-bo-dy be-long-ing to them: no, there they were, on-ly hands.

Speak dy preres in dy sleepe, for me sal cut off your head from your epaules, before you wake.

The last hours of the dy-ing year With song and dance and mirth.