Poetry Archives

Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee!
That was the song that he sang to me—Sang
from his perch in the willow tree—
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.
  My little brown bird,
  The song that I heard
Was a happier song than the minstrels sing—
A paean of joy and a carol of spring;
And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

  My birdie looked wise
  With his little black eyes,
As he peeked and peered from his perch at me
With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee,
  As if he would say—
  Sing trouble away,
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

  Only one note
  From his silver throat;
  Only one word
  From my wise little bird;
But a sweeter note or a wiser word
From the tongue of mortal I never have heard,
Than my little philosopher sang to me
From his bending perch in the willow tree—
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.

    Come foul or fair,
    Come trouble and care—
    No—never a sigh
    Or a thought of despair!
For my little bird sings in my heart to me,
As he sang from his perch in the willow tree—
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee:
Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee;
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.