As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made;

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;

Everything did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Leaned her breast up—till a thorn;

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,

That to hear it was great pity.

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;

Teru, teru, by and by;

That, to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain;

For her griefs, so lively shewn,

Made me think upon mine own.

Ah!—thought I—thou mourn'st in vain;

None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;

Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee;

King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapped in lead;

All thy fellow-birds do sing,

Careless of thy sorrowing!

—Richard Barnfield.

Old English Poet.