RED BREAST

I saw one hanging on a tree,

And O his face was sad to see,—

Misery, misery me!

There were berries red upon his head,

And in his hands, and on his feet,

But when I tried to pick and eat,

They were his blood, and he was dead;—

Misery, misery me!

It broke my heart to see him there,

So lone and sad in his despair;

The nails of woe were through his hands,

And through his feet,— ah, misery me!

With beak and claws I did my best

To loose the nails and set him free,

But they were all too strong for me;—

Misery, misery me!

I picked and pulled, and did my best,

And his red blood stained all my breast;

I bit the nails, I pecked the thorn,

O, never saw I thorn so worn;

But yet I could not get him free;—

Misery, misery me!

And never since have I feared man,

But ever I seek him when I can,

And let him see the wish in me

To ease him of his misery.