To the Tune of, Wat ye wha I met yestreen, &c.
OF all the birds, whose tuneful throats
Do welcome in the verdant spring,
I far prefer the stirling’s notes,
And think she does most sweetly sing.
Nor thrush, nor linnet, nor the bird,
Brought from the far Canary coast,
Nor can the nightingale afford
Such melody as she can boast.
When Phœbus southward darts his fires,
And on our plains he looks ascance,
The nightingale with him retires,
My stirling makes my blood to dance.
In spite of Hyem’s nipping frost,
Whether the day be dark or clear,
Shall I nor to her health entoast,
Who makes it summer all the year.
Then by thyself, my lovely bird,
I’ll stroke thy back, and kiss thy breast;
And if you’ll take my honest word,
As sacred as before the priest,
I’ll bring thee where I will devise
Such various ways to pleasure thee,
The velvet-fog thou will despise,
When on the downy-bills with me.
– New Words by Different Hands.