THAT'S the dove, my darling!
Murmurous, soft and tender;
There! she's mooning, crooning,
On a pine-branch slender.
And ah! it's the dove, the dove, dove, dove,
That never can coo, but she pleads of love,
Of love, love, love,
In the shadows fair and tender.
That's the wren, my fairy!
With her wee love-pledges;
See her playing, straying
Underneath the hedges.
And oh! it's the wren, the wren, wren, wren,
That is never contented too far from men,
But lives, lives, lives
Secure in the field-side hedges.
That's the thrush, my beauty!
Hark! and let us hear her,
Yonder swinging, singing,
Higher, bolder, clearer,
And oh! it's the thrush, the thrush, thrush, thrush,
Whose loud song wakens the noon-tide hush,
The deep, deep hush
Of the meadows and wolds, to hear her!
That's the mockbird, sweetheart!
To all tones beholden,
Which are thrilling, filling
Glades of woodland golden,
And ah! it's a bird, a bird, bird, bird,
The sweetest that ever a mortal heard.
Ah! sweet, sweet, sweet,
In the sunshine, fresh and golden!
