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THE WHITE-THROAT

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Deep in the somber solitude,
Where only curious stars intrude,
In the sultry blight of August haze,
Or the rain-washed air of April days,
The white-throat flutes in cadence long
His golden rivulet of song:
"All-day-long-fiddlin', fiddlin', fiddlin'."

What joy he feels, what pride he takes
In the simple tune he makes!
He never envies Robin's trills;
He never seems to care for frills—
Just content in a humble way
On his single golden string to play:
"All-day-long-fiddlin', fiddlin', fiddlin'."

O lone drab singer! never weary
When other brilliant birds are dreary,
Teach me my humble task to do
With buoyant faith and courage true;
With a eladsome heart in sun or rain
To sing unheard the brave refrain:
"All-day-long-fiddlin', fiddlin', fiddlin'."