The grey shrike thrush has sung his final song
He lay on forest floor neath fallen leaves
And Mother Nature who gives life and then take
For her dead children never seems to grieve.

I heard him sing all through the balmy Spring
And in the Summer at the dawn of day
But he will never see another Spring
And under Winter leaves the shrike thrush lay.

In Spring when sun will shine on woodland trees
His sons and daughters will sing all the day
And never even remember their dad
Who under leaves will have gone to decay.

In early Summer young birds take to wing
And from branch to branch through leafy wood they fly
But hands of time keep turning all the while
And like dead thrush they soon will age and die.