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Across the noisy street I hear him careless throw One warning utterance sweet; Then faint at first, and low, The full notes closer grow; Hard, what a torrent gush! They pour, they overflow-- Sing on, sing on, O thrush!

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.

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

I said to the brown, brown thrush: "Hush, hush! Through the wood's full strains I hear Thy monotone deep and clear, Like a sound amid sounds most fine."

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the moon upon the lea; Are the emeralds of the spring On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, Are there buds on our willow-tree? Buds and birds on our trysting tree?

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

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

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.