The Nightingale

In midnight’s calm hour the Nightingale sings Of freedom, of love, and delight; Come, haste to the grove where melody rings, ’Tis Philomel’s notes that invite. A fowler attentively follows her there, Resolv’d for his victim to spread out a snare: Think, girls, of the Nightingale’s fate, and beware!

In ambush his nets he carefully brings, Glad innocence feels no alarm; Unguarded her flight—’midst danger she wings— And falls into sorrowful harm. Alas! she is silent, and full of despair, He glides away quick with his treasure so rare: Think, girls, of the Nightingale’s fate, and beware!

A beautiful cage adorns his fair prize, In hope that for him she will sing; But Freedom, that wafted her notes to the skies, Bore Gladness away on its wing. Thus you, Philomela, resemble the fair, And we, we delight in the love that we share: O, think of the Nightingale’s fate, and beware!