Why, why, little bird, so cheerfully sing,
When all things around look so sad?
The prospect at present, as touching the spring,
Gives cause to be sorry, not glad!
Had April appear'd in loveliest hue,
And made the green meadows look gay,
Thou merrily might'st have mounted thy bough,
And warbled thy minutes away.
But summer's far off, and still in the copse,
The cold winter's snow doth descend,
Fierce winds, and sharp frosts, may yet blast thy hopes,
And bring thy sweet song to an end.
By craft of the boys, in bush, or in wood,
Thy foot may be caught in a snare,
And thou whilst seeking a morsel of food,
Be a captive, ere thou art aware.
Why merrily sing, when thou hast no barn,
In which to lay up thy grain?
Why warble thy notes, while unthankful man,
So often is heard to complain?
Why cheerfully sing when there are no flowers,
Or sun in the valley to shine?
'Tis proof that thy prospects are brighter than ours,
Thy heart more contented than mine!