Little brown thrush, are you singing for me,
Pouring your song from the crest of the tree?
Oh! I’m not worthy of such a sweet tune,
Poured from the tree-tops bright mornings in June.
Yet warble for me, warble for me!
O, if you’ll sing for me, little brown thrush,
I’ll build a nest for you, lined with soft plush;
“Ah, that’s not nice enough,” that’s what you say,
Waving your pretty wings, soaring away.
O warble for me, warble for me!
Little brown thrush, then come, build your own nest
Of fine straw and silk, and things you like best;
I’ll scatter the down for you, under the tree,
To line the nest warm, if you’ll warble for me.
O warble for me, warble for me!