Have you got a Brook¹ in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so --

And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught² of life
Is daily drunken there --

Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go --

And later, in August it may be --
When the meadows parching³ lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!

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