Pray, where are all the bluebells gone,
That lately bloomed in the wood?
Why, the little fairies have each taken one,
And put it on for a hood.
And where are the pretty grass-stalks gone,
That waved in the summer breeze?
Oh, the fairies have taken them, every one,
To plant in their gardens like trees.
And where are the great big blue-bottles gone,
That buzzed in their busy pride?
Oh, the fairies have caught them, every one,
And have broken them in, to ride.
And they’ve taken the glow-worms to light their halls,
And the cricket to sing them a song;
And the great red rose leaves to paper their walls,
And they’re feasting the whole night long.
And when Spring comes back with its soft mild ray,
And the ripple of gentle rain,
The fairies bring what they’ve taken away,
And give it us all again.