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.

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.

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.