The bookman he's a humming bird His feasts are honey fine, With hi! hilloo! And clover dew And roses lush and rare! His roses are the phrase and word of olden tomes divine; With hi! and ho! And pinks ablow And posies everywhere! The Bookman he's a humming bird, He steals from song to song He scents the ripest blooming rhyme, And takes his heart along And sacks all sweets of bursting verse And ballads, throng on throng. A humming bird the Bookman is though cumbrous, gray and grim, with hi! hilloo! And honey dew and odors musty rare! He bends him o'er that page of his As o'er the rose's rim. With hi! and ho! And pinks aglow and roses everywhere! Ay, he's the featest humming bird, on airiest of wings He poises pendent o'er the poem That blossoms as it sings God friend him as he dips his beak In such delicious things! With ho! and hey! And world away and only dreams for him.