The blackbird in the garden I know him by his song
His voice is unmistakeable one cannot get him wrong
His kind I knew many years ago when I was a young boy
In a wood that is far north of here even as the crow does fly.

The blackbird in the garden is one I often see
Sometimes he is quite silent perched on a bush or tree
And sometimes by the hedgerow he scatters leaves around
In his search for slugs and worms that are hiding in the ground.

His female a very quiet one I never hear her sing
She even remains silent in her breeding months of Spring
Her kind I also used to see in feathers of mottled brown
In the high wood by the mountain that overlook the town.

The glossy blackbird in the garden with the lovely orange coloured bill
His song to me as familiar as the babble of the rill
That to the bigger river down the high country flow
His kind I used to hear sing as a boy long years ago.