An Irish Blackbird
This is my brave singer, With his beak of gold; Now my hearts a captive In his songs sweet hold. O, the larks a rover, Seeking fields above: But my serenader Hath a human love. Hark! he says, in winter Nests are full of snow, But a truce to wailing Summer breezes blow. Hush! he sings, with night-time Phantoms cease to be, Join your serenader Piping on his tree. O, my little lover, Warble in the blue; Wingless must I envy Skies so wide for you.
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"This is my brave singer,..."
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