' Oh ! bother,' sang the thrush,
'I'm in an awful rush,
For I've got to get ready for the Spring.
With feathers from my breast,
I'll line a cosy nest,
A terribly difficult thing !

'Before it is too late,
I'll have to find a mate,
And she must be dainty and small.
Obedient and sweet.
In jacket brown and neat,
And ready to come when I call.

' The robins are all wed
(Or so I've heard it said).
And the wind from the South it does blow.
The ice has felt the sun.
And winter must be done,
For a primrose is growing in the snow !'