Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day,
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys:
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care,
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to your strain:
See aged Winter, amid his surly reign,
At your blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought (anything) to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day,
You whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Your boon was purer joys:
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, you child of Poverty and Care,
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with you I will share.