If Ever I See

On bush or tree, Young birds in their pretty nest, I must not in play, Steal the birds away, To grieve their mother's breast.

My mother, I know, Would sorrow so, Should I be stolen away; So I'll speak to the birds In my softest words, Nor hurt them in my play.

And when they can fly In the bright blue sky, They'll warble a song to me; And then if I'm sad It will make me glad To think they are happy and free.