At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

In the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet.

O thrush, your song is passing sweet, But never a song that you have sung Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear love and I were young.

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush.

Hush! With sudden gush As from a fountain sings in yonder bush The Hermit Thrush.