When cats run home and light is come,
      And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
      And the whirring sail goes round,
      And the whirring sail goes round;
           Alone and warming his five wits,
           The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
      And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
      Twice or thrice his roundelay,
      Twice or thrice his roundelay;
           Alone and warming his five wits,
           The white owl in the belfry sits.