In April comes the Nightingale, That sings when day's departed; The poets call her Philomel, And vow she's broken-hearted. To them her soft, sweet, ling'ring note Is like the sound of sorrow; But some aver, no need hath she The voice of grief to borrow. No, 'tis the merry Nightingale, Her pipe is clear and thrilling; No anxious care, no keen regret, Her little breast is filling. She grieves when boys have robb'd her nest, But so would Stork or Starling; What mother would not weep and cry To lose her precious darling?
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