O Say, have you heard of the sing-away bird,
That sings where the Runaway River
Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills
That stand in the sunshine and shiver?
“O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
How the pines and the birches are stirred
By the trill of the sing-away bird!
And the bald-headed hills, with their rocks and their rills,
To the tune of his rapture are ringing.
And their faces grow young, all their gray mists among,
While the forests break forth into singing,
“O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
And the river runs singing along;
And the flying winds catch up the song.
It was nothing but—hush! a wild white-throated thrush,
That emptied his musical quiver
With a charm and a spell over valley and dell
On the banks of the Runaway River.
“O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
Yet the song of the wild singer had
The sound of a soul that is glad.
And, beneath the glad sun, may a glad-hearted one
Set the world to the tune of his gladness.
The rivers shall sing it, the breezes shall wing it,
Till life shall forget its long sadness.
“O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
Sing, spirit, who knowest joy’s Giver,—
Sing on, by time’s Runaway River!