Sweet warbler of a strain divine,
What woodland note can equal thine?
No hermit's matins hail the day
More pure than fine from yonder spray.
Thy glossy plumes of sable hue,
Retiring from the searching view,
Protect the like, the leafy screen
Beneath whose shade thou singst unseen.

What ermine vest was e'er so warm
As plumes of down that clothe thy form!
Thy graceful crest, thy sparkling eye,
And slender bill of coral dye,
Are still less charming than thy song
Which echoes through the woods prolong:
Thy mellow strain delights the ear
Of the sweet maid my soul holds dear.

Thou to the poet art allied,
Be then thy minstrelsy my pride:
Thy poet then, thy song I'll praise,
Thy name shall grace my happiest lays;
To future lovers shall proclaim
Thy worth, thy beauty, and thy fame,
And when they hear thee in the grove,
Thy'll own thee for the bird of love.