And fresh ripe cherries, all wet with dew.
Thanks, little stranger, for all thy care,
But dearly I love the clear cool air;
And my snug little nest on the old oak tree,
Is better than a golden cage to me.
Little bird, little bird, where wilt thou go
When the fields are all buried in snow?
The ice will cover the old oak tree—
Little bird, little bird, stay with me.
No, little stranger, God guides me,