Classic Poem

Sure 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 an' loud,
— He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush
— After an April rain
Slip from in-undher 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 heart in your breast,
— He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo
— Callin' his mate in May,
When one sweet thought is the whole of his life,
— An' he tells it the one sweet way.
But my heart is sore at the cushadoo
— Filled wid his own soft glee,
Over an' over his " me an' you! "
— He's never the bird for me.

Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast
— Singin' his lone on a thorn,
Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost,
— Brave wid his heart 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.