One morning in May, by chance I did rove,
I sat myself down, by the side of a grove,
And there did I hear: the sweet nightingale sing,
I never heard so sweet as the birds in the spring.
All on the green grass I sat myself down,
Where the voice of the nightingale echoed around,
“Don’t you hear how he quivers the notes?” I declare,
“No music, no songster with him can compare.”
Come all you young men, I’ll have you draw near,
I pray you now heed me, these words for to hear,
That when you’ve grown old, you may have it to sing,
You never heard so sweet as the birds in the spring.