He slaps the daub against the wattle;
And whistles gaily,
Happy because his little cottage
Is growing daily —
The little house of withes and loam
Is daily growing to a home.

He whistles gaily as a blackbird
A moment resting
To sing out, on a leafing willow,
The joy of nesting —
The joy that quivers in his breast
To be alive, and build a nest.

So, slapping daub against the wattle,
Ben's heart is singing,
Because each flourish of his trowel
Nearer is bringing
The happy day he'll bring her home
To their snug house of withes and loam.