The Blackbird

'Twas on a bank of daisies sweet, A lovely maiden sigh'd; The little lambs play'd at her feet, While she in sorrow cry'd— Where is my love, where can he stray? When thus a Blackbird sung— Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, he will not stay, The air with music rung.

Ah! mock me not, bold bird, she said, And why pray tarry here? Dost thou bemoan some youngling fled, Or, hast thou lost thy dear? Dost thou lament his absence? say: Again the Blackbird sung— Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, he will not stay: The air with music rung.

Sing on, she cry'd, thou charming bird, Those dulcet notes repeat! No music e'er like thine was heard, So truly sweet, sweet, sweet. Oh, that my love was here to-day, Once more the Blackbird sung; Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, he comes this way! The air with music rung.