The name of even the smallest bird,

His gentle-joyful song I heard.

Now see if you can tell, my dear.

What bird it is that, every year,

Sings “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

 He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his heart with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade; and every day Repeats his small, contented lay; As if to say, we need not fear The season's change, if love is here With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

He comes in March, when winds are strong,

And snow returns to hide the earth;

But still he warms his heart with mirth,

And waits for May. He lingers long

While flowers fade; and every day

Repeats his small, contented lay;

As if to say, we need not fear

The season's change, if love is here

With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

 He does not wear a Joseph's-coat Of many colours, smart and gay; His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat. And yet of all the well-dressed throng Not one can sing so brave a song. It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing, to hear His “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

He does not wear a Joseph's-coat

Of many colours, smart and gay;

His suit is Quaker brown and gray,

With darker patches at his throat.

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