At the corner of Wood–Street, when day-light appears,

There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,

Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail,

And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove's,

The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.

Poor Outcast! return — to receive thee once more

The house of thy Father will open its door,

And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,

May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.