The Mocking-Bird

Frank Lebby Stanton (1857–1927)

HE did n’t know much music

When first he come along;

An’ all the birds went wonderin’

Why he did n’t sing a song.

They primped their feathers in the sun,

An’ sung their sweetest notes;

An’ music jest come on the run

From all their purty throats!

But still that bird was silent

In summer time an’ fall;

He jest set still an’ listened,

An’ he would n’t sing at all!

But one night when them songsters

Was tired out an’ still,

An’ the wind sighed down the valley

An’ went creepin’ up the hill;

When the stars was all a-tremble

In the dreamin’ fields o’ blue,

An’ the daisy in the darkness

Felt the fallin’ o’ the dew,—

There come a sound o’ melody

No mortal ever heard,

An’ all the birds seemed singin’

From the throat o’ one sweet bird!

Then the other birds went Mayin’

In a land too fur to call;

Fer there warn’t no use in stayin’

When one bird could sing fer all!