She wrung her claws, poor thing,
But was far too proud to speak.
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.
A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face.
She knew they had heard her song,
She FELT them snicker and sneer,