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.”

 A lofty place he does not love, But sits by choice, and well at ease, In hedges, and in little trees That stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings; And so he tells in every ear, That lowly homes to heaven are near In “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

A lofty place he does not love,

But sits by choice, and well at ease,

In hedges, and in little trees

That stretch their slender arms above

The meadow-brook; and there he sings

Till all the field with pleasure rings;

And so he tells in every ear,

That lowly homes to heaven are near

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

 I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear, Because he'd bless me, every year, With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

I like the tune, I like the words;

They seem so true, so free from art,

So friendly, and so full of heart,

That if but one of all the birds

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