I walked abroad one summers day to hear
song of bird that through my heart might sear,
in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
A little bird sat in the beech-tree grove,
sweet it sang in summers twilight mauve,
in the leafy vales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
It sang so sweet of meadows lush and low,
where like grass forgetmenots do grow.
It sang so sweet of waves both blue and white
out at sea where Danish vessels glide,
It sang of everything one fain would hear,
most of all what through the heart can sear,
It sang as no bird else has ever sung,
played so grandly with my mother tongue,
It sang as if my heart itself did speak,
pain and joy were notes from its small beak,
And then I murmured in the twilight mauve:
Fly, Gold Crest! fly round your beech-tree grove,
Oh, fly from north to south, from west to east,
sing at Danish school, church, dance and feast,
In common Danish, in our mother tongue,
sing aloud like no bird else has sung,
Then all who hold their mothers dear will know
Denmark is a place where hearts can grow,
Then all will gleam thats lit up by the sun,
like red gold upon our mother tongue,
in the deep, green dales,
midst the nightingales
and each bird that now my heart regales.
