List! to that pretty little bird,
Singing on yonder bush of thorn;
Its plaintive notes I have not heard,
Save in the land where I was born.
Full oft in boyhood's sunny days
I've listened to its short sweet song,
When wandering o'er the whinny braes
Or briery knowes, the whole day long.
How gleefully we used to mock
The yellow yorlin's simple lay;
With eager hands pull back the dock
That hid its nest of hair and hay !
Gone is the friend with whom I played,
In those my boyhood's happy hours;
Not long from him Death's hand was stayed:
He gained not his full manhood's powers.
When but a stripling, to the plough
He set his hand right manfully;
Though short his time for work, I trow,
There's few who more have done than he.
With zeal, for sake of Master loved,
He strove to aid his fellow-men :
The task too heavy for him proved
How soon we'd part I thought not then.
Here in this sunny Southern land,
In this bird's song there's something sad ;
Or, is't that, led by memory's hand,
I mourn him lost when yet a lad ?
Yes, yellow yorlin, this is all
Thy simple song has done for me ;
Not these sad thoughts rose at thy call,
But thoughts of boyhood, full of glee.
There's no more sadness in thy note
Than in the song my lost friend sings,
Where sounds of heavenly music float
Around the throne of King of kings.
Sing on, then, little yellow bird,
Though thou, like us, art stranger here,
To those by whom thy song is heard
Thou'lt oft recall their boyhood dear.
