In my hometown there once was
An old bird-catcher,
With thread and bird-lime he caught
The colourful singers of the forest.
He gave them worms to eat
And delicate ants’ eggs
And schooled their voice and ear
With a hurdy-gurdy.

  The young blackbird was his pride and joy,
The queen of all the singers;
Hungry, in the woods, she had
Gotten caught in a snare.
She sang, "Hail to you in the victor's wreath"
And "Tomorrow I must depart",
"We twine the maiden-wreath for you"
And "Little rose upon the heath".

  Master, take care!  The little door is agape,
And outdoors the sun is shining.
Before you know it, from her prison escapes
The clever prima donna.
She left the full feed trough,
The master and the hurdy gurdy,
She spread her little winds and flew
To the alder shrub by the pond.

  The blackbird sits in the alder hedge
And sings the old lay
That Adam already heard on 
The first day in paradise.
Unless she has died, she still sings
Her free song today. --
And the moral of the story
You people may figure out for yourselves.