YE MERRY BIRDS 



Oh, where shall tongue or pen find words 

 To sing your praise, ye merry birds; 



Your pretty forms, your gentle eyes, 

 Your graceful flight athwart the skies ; 

 Your plumage soft of colors rare, 

 Your joy songs pulsing everwhere? 

 Xay, Mords of mine impotent seem 

 To fitly clothe the fertile theme, y 



Ah, what a cheerless world 'twould be 

 Without your song and flight so free; 



Nigh half the charm would disappear 

 Of springtime joys, were you not here 

 A sense of !)uoyancy to bring 

 And thoughts of heaven, when ye sing; 



E'en sunmicr's glow and autumn's hue 

 Were dulled and dreary without you. 



And so I fain your charms would tell; 



Nor could I fail to sing them well. 

 Befit tingly to voice your praise, 

 Could 1 hut catch your thrilling lays; 



Could my poor muse but with you rise 



In flight amid the lambent skies — 



Oh, surely then, I'd find the words 

 To sing of you, O merry birds. 



rn 



