I.
If souls could sing to heaven's high King As blackbirds pipe on earth, How those delicious courts would ring With gusts of lovely mirth!
What white-robed throng could lift a song So mellow with righteous
As this brown bird that all day long Delights my hawthorn tree. Hark!
That's the thrush With speckled breast From yon white bush Chaunting his best, Te Deum!
Te Deum laudamus! II.
If earthly dreams be touched with gleams Of Paradisal air,
Some wings, perchance, of earth may glance Around our slumbers there;
Some breaths of may might drift our way With scents of leaf and loam,
Some whistling bird at dawn be heard From those old woods of home. Hark!
That's the thrush With speckled breast From yon white bush Chaunting his best, Te Deum!
Te Deum laudamus!
II.
No King or priest shall mar my feast Where'er my soul may range.
I have no fear of heaven's good cheer Unless our Master change.
But when death's night is dying away, If I might choose my bliss,
My love should say, at break of day, With her first waking kiss:— Hark!
That's the thrush With speckled breast, From yon white bush Chaunting his best, Te Deum!
Te Deum laudamus!
