But you, sweet bird, unlike the throng,
Salute him with a joyous song.
When heavy rains and sleet prolong
The dreary day,
You chant to him your evening song
Upon the spray.
No blackbird whistles in the grove,
Where late in chorus sweet they strove;
No warbler's tongue is heard to move,
But all is sad;
No cushat woos his amorous love
In hazel glade.
Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.
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