Come forth, come forth, 'tis the time of joy,
The summer is out on the vales, my boy,
The brook through its lillied bed doth glide,
The white lamb sports by its mother's side,
And the butterfly spreads out a gold wing,
And the bee to the honey-flower doth sing,
And the grasshopper chirps 'mid the new-mown hay,
So we, my child, will be blyth as they.

Sweet words
Speak the birds
    From the tree,
Mother teach
Their speech
    Unto me.

Their song is of love when they build their nest,
Of love, when they soar o'er the mountain's breast,
When they nurse their young in their green retreat,
This makes their music, to us so sweet,
And who can say but those warblings rise
To the Father of Love in yon beautiful skies?
But nobler by far than their highest lays
Is the language of man, and the voice of praise.