Classic Poem

Out on the waste, a little lonely bird, I flit and I sing;
My breast is yellow as sunshine, and light as the wind my wing.

The golden gorse me shelters, in the tufted grass is my nest,
And Sweet, sweet, sweet the world , though the wind blow east or west.

The harebells chime their music, the canna floats white in the breeze:
But as for me, I flit to and fro and I sing at my ease.

When the thyme is dripping with dew, and the hill-wind beareth along
The pungent scent of the gale, loudly I sing my morning song.

When the sun beats on the gorse, the broom, and the budding heather,
I flit from spray to spray, and my song is of the golden weather.

When the moor-fowl sink to their rest, and the sky is soft rose-red,
I sing of the crescent moon and the single star overhead.

Out on the waste, out on the waste, I flit all day as I sing,
Sweet, sweet, sweet is the woyld — dear world — how beautiful everything!

Only a little lonely bird that loveth the moorland waste,
And little perhaps of the joy of the world is that which I taste;

But out on the wild, free moorlands or the gold gorse-boughs I swing;
And Sweet, sweet, sweet the world; oh, sweet! ah, sweet! the song that I sing.