An irish blackbird

This is my brave singer,

With his beak of gold;

Now my heart’s a captive

In his song’s sweet hold.

O, the lark’s a rover,

Seeking fields above:

But my serenader

Hath a human love.

“Hark!” he says, “in winter

Nests are full of snow,

But a truce to wailing

Summer breezes blow.”

“Hush!” he sings, “with night-time

Phantoms cease to be,

Join your serenader

Piping on his tree.”

O, my little lover,

Warble in the blue;

Wingless must I envy

Skies so wide for you.