Dear blackbird, I'll list why thou singest,
My harp for awhile shall be still;
The host of sweet thoughts that thou bringest
My soul must with melody fill.
The minstrel from childhood has known thee
He ever was cheer'd by thy voice;
And still as a friend he will own thee,
Who calls on his heart to rejoice.
The minstrel may oft sing of gladness,
But never all of joy is his song,
There still are old mem'ries of sadness,
Which flow with his music along.
While thou has no thought of forgetting
The griefs of a long dreary past,
Thou sing'st but of joy, nought regretting,
Rejoicing thou sing'st the last.