jk fSrPI^ING JSoNG. 
NE morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
All the birds were' singing blithely, as if never they would 
cease ; 
’Twas the Thrush sang in the garden, “Hear the story, hear the 
story!” 
And the Lark sang “Give us glory,” 
And the Dove sang, “ Give us Peace !” 
Then I listened, oh, so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
To the murmur from the woodland, of the Dove, my dear, the 
Dove; 
When the Nightingale came after, “Give.us Fame to sweeten 
duty,” 
When the Wren sang, “ Give us Beauty," 
She made answer, “Give us Love!” 
Fair is April, fair the morning, my beloved, my beloved, 
Now for us doth Spring’s bright morning wait upon the year’s 
increase, 
Let my voice be heard, that asketh not for fame and not for 
glory, 
Give for all our life’s dear story, 
Give us Love and give us Peace ! 
Jean Ingeloiv, 
28 
