html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }A HAZE lies over meadow and hill,
The drowsy calm of an August day;
The cattle lounge 'neath the shady trees,
The wheat is swayed by the sleepy breeze,
The bees hum by in an idle way,
And a voice from the wheat pipes plaintive still,
From morn to night,
"Bob White!" "Bob White!"
Poor bird! Does he answer not to your call?
I have heard you whistle the long day through,
Hidden away in the golden wheat.
Do you think at last your love to meet
As you call for him there in the falling dew?
Who knows? Pipe on by the old stone wall.
May he come ere night.
"Bob White!" "Bob White!"