I WILL sing for you, dearie, a song that I

know

Of a ruby-eyed thrush, of a silver-tailed

thrush,

Who sat on a spray of a dry willow-bush,

And sang to a queen in a palace of snow.

The thrush's wing-feathers were jewel and

blue,

And he spread them alway on a Christmas

Day,

When he sang to the queen on his willow

spray—

O dearie, the honey-sweet song he knew!

At her palace window the queen would stay

So pinky and fair with her curly gold hair;

She merrily rocked in a crystal chair,

And never a queen was half so gay.

You want the queen in her palace of snow,

And the ruby-eyed thrush, the silver-tailed

thrush,

Who sat on a spray of a dry willow-bush?

Why, dearie, it's only a song, you know!