Song of the Thrush.

Song of the Thrush.
255.11

Ah, the May was grand this mornin’!
Shure, how could I feel forlorn in
Such a land, when tree and flowers tossed their kisses to the breeze?
Could an Irish heart be quiet
While the spring was running riot,
An’ the birds of free America were singing In the trees?
In the songs that they were singing
No familiar note was ringing.
But I strove to imitate them an’ I whistled Ilke a lad.
Oh, my heart was warm to love them
For the very newness of them- For the ould songs that they helped me to forget-an’ I was glad.

So I mocked the feathered choir
To my hungry heart’s desire.
An’ I gloried in the comradship that made their joy my own.
Till a note sounded, stilling
All the rest. A thrush was trilling!
Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the field about Athlone!
Where, upon the whitethorn swaying.
He was minstrel of the Maying
In my days of love an’ laughter that the years have Inld at rest; I
Here again his notes were ringing!
But I’d lost the heart for singing- Ah, the song I could not answer was t.. one I know the best!