So I mocked the feathered choir
To my hungry heart’s desire,
An’ I gloried in the comradeship that made their joy my own.
Till a new note sounded, stillin’
All the rest. A thrush was trillin’!
Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the fields about Athlone!
Where, upon the whitethorn swayin’,
He was minstrel of the Mayin’,
In my days of love an’ laughter that the years have laid at rest;
Here again his notes were ringin’!