Songs, 3

By nought but sorrow attended,
I wander’d under the trees;
That olden vision descended,
And stole to my heart by degrees.

Who taught you the word ye are singing,
Ye birds in the branches on high?
O hush! when my heart hears it ringing,
It makes it more mournfully sigh.

“A fair young maiden ’twas taught it,
“Who came here, and sang like a bird;
“And so we birds easily caught it,
“That pretty, golden word.”

No more shall this story deceive me,
Ye birds, so wondrously sly:
Of my sorrow ye fain would bereave me,
On your friendship I cannot rely.