Birds

Sure an' maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush

Whistlin' bould in March,

Before there's a primrose peepin' out,

Or a wee red cone on the larch;

Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud,

An' the wind to come over the sea,

But for all he can whistle so clear and so loud,

He's never the bird for me.

Sure an maybe ye've seen the song-thrush

After and April rain

Slip from in under the drippin' leaves,

Wishful to sing again;

An low wi' love when he's near the nest,

An' loud from the top o' the tree,

But for all he can flutter the heard in your breast,

He's never the bird for me.

Sure an' maybe ye've heard the red-breast

Singin' his lone on a thorn,

Mindin' himself of the dear days lost,

Brave wid his heard forlorn.

The time is in dark November,

An' no spring hopes has he:

"Remember", he sings, "remember!"

Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.