THE CHRISTMAS THRUSH.
I WILL sing for you, dearie, a song that I
know
Of a ruby-eyed thrush, of a silver-tailed
thrush,
Who sat on a spray of a dry willow-bush,
And sang to a queen in a palace of snow.
The thrush's wing-feathers were jewel and
blue,
And he spread them alway on a Christmas
Day,
When he sang to the queen on his willow
spray—
O dearie, the honey-sweet song he knew!
At her palace window the queen would stay
So pinky and fair with her curly gold hair;
She merrily rocked in a crystal chair,
And never a queen was half so gay.
You want the queen in her palace of snow,
And the ruby-eyed thrush, the silver-tailed
thrush,
Who sat on a spray of a dry willow-bush?
Why, dearie, it's only a song, you know!