Sweet sing the birds in lowly strains,
All mingled in their song;
For lovely Spring is here again,
And Winter’s cold is gone.
All things around seem filled with glee,
And joy swells every breast;
The buds are peeping from each bush,
Where soon the birds will rest.
The meadows now are fresh and green,
The flowers are bursting forth,
And nature seems to us serene,
And shows her sterling worth.
The lark sores high up in the air,
We listen to his lays;
He knows no sorrow nor no care,
Nor weariness o’ days.
But men, though born of noble birth,
Assigned for higher spheres,
Walks his sad journey here on earth
All full o’ doubts and fears.
It Izant so we Me.
Bright seems the days when I was young
Fra thought, fra care, fra sorrow free;
As wild waves rippled i’ the sun,
Rolled gaily on, and so wi’ me.
More bright the flowers when I was young,
More sweet the birds sang on the tree;
While pleasure and contentment flung
Her smiles on them, and so wi’ me.
The naked truth, I told when young,
Though tempted wi hypocracy;
Though some embraced from it I sprang,
And said it izant so wi’ me.
Aw saw the canting jibs when young,
Of saintly, sulky misery;
Yet poked aw melancholy’s ribs,
And said it izant so wi’ me.