O where is thy home, sweet bird,
With the song, and the bright, glossy plume?
"I 'll tell thee where I rest,
If thou wilt not rob my nest;—
I built among the sweet apple bloom."
But what 's in thy nest, bright bird?
What 's there, in the snug, downy cell?
"If thou wilt not rob the tree;
Nor go too near, to see
My quiet little home, I will tell."
O! I will not thy trust betray,
But closely thy secret I will keep.
"I 've three little tender things,
That have never used their wings!
I left them there, at home, fast asleep."
Then, why art thou here, my bird,
Away from thy young, helpless brood?
"To pay thee with a song,
Just to let me pass along,
Nor harm me, as I look for their food!"