A tiny bird, oh, I know not what,
Flew up into a tree to squat
And trill her song. The garden rang.
I knew her tongue, here’s what she sang:
Tra-lee! Tra-la! For shame we find
Worry, the bane of all mankind,
A two-legged fool who counts the sum
Of what may be, of what may come!
Tra-lee! Tra-la! The sun shall rise
To warm the earth—and yet, you prize
Dark thoughts of what may never be.
Friend sing with me, Tra-la! Tra-lee!
The fields are gold, so soft the breeze,
The fruit is ripe upon the trees,
The sky is wide both near and far—
And all is well. Tra-lee! Tra-la!