Sing on, sweet feathered warbler, sing!
Mount higher on thy joyous wing,
And let thy morning anthem ring
Full on my ear;
Thou art the only sign of spring
I see or hear.

The earth is buried deep in snow;
The muffled streams refuse to flow,
The rattling mill can scarcely go,
For ice and frost:
The beauty of the vale below
In death is lost.

Save thine, no note of joy is heard-
Thy kindred songsters of the wood
Have long since gone, and thou, sweet bird,
Art left behind-
A faithful friend, whose every word
Is sweet and kind.

But Spring will come, as thou wilt see,
With blooming flower and budding tree,
And song of bird and hum of bee
Their charms to lend;
But I will cherish none like thee,
My constant friend.

Like the dear friends who ne'er forsake me-
Whatever sorrows overtake me-
In spite of all my faults which make me
Myself detest,
They still cling to and kindly take me
Unto their breast.