Grey Thrush
GREY thrush was in the wattle tree, an', "Oh, you pretty
dear!"
He says in his allurin' way;-an' I remarks, "Hear, hear!
That does me nicely for a start ; but what do I say next?"
But then the Jacks take up the song, an' I get very vexed.
The thrush was in the wattle-tree, an' I was underneath.
I'd put a clean white collar on, I'd picked a bunch of heath;
For I was cleaned an' clobbered up to meet my Nell that day.
But now my awful trouble comes: What is a man to say?
I mean to tell her all I've thought since first I saw her there.
On the bark-heap by the mill-shed, with the sunlight in her hair.
I mean to tell her all I've done an' what I'll do with life;
An', when I've said all that an' more, I'll ask her for my wife.
I mean to tell her she's too good, by far, for such as me,
An' how with lonely forest life she never may agree.
I mean to tell her lots of things, an' be reel straight an' fine;
And, after she's considered that, I'll ask her to be mine.
I don't suppose I've got much hope—a simple country yob.
I'd like to have a word with Blair—He's wise, is good old Bob.
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