Better one byrde in hand than ten in the wood.

Better one byrde in hand than ten in the wood.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays read more

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all the joy of life,
And we in the mad spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.

The woosel cock so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
read more

The woosel cock so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill--
. . . .
The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plain-song cuckoo grey,
Whose note full many a man doth mark,
And dares not answer nay.

A feather in hand is better then a bird in the ayre.
[A feather in hand is better than read more

A feather in hand is better then a bird in the ayre.
[A feather in hand is better than a bird in the air.]

That which prevents disagreeable flies from feeding on your
repast, was once the proud tail of a splendid bird.

That which prevents disagreeable flies from feeding on your
repast, was once the proud tail of a splendid bird.

The bird
That glads the night had cheer'd the listening groves with sweet
complainings.

The bird
That glads the night had cheer'd the listening groves with sweet
complainings.

Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember
it's a sin to kill a read more

Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember
it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.

I heard a bird so sing,
Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

I heard a bird so sing,
Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

When the swallows homeward fly,
When the roses scattered lie,
When from neither hill or dale,
read more

When the swallows homeward fly,
When the roses scattered lie,
When from neither hill or dale,
Chants the silvery nightingale:
In these works my bleeding heart
Would to thee its brief impart;
When I thus thy image lose
Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose?