Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds,
That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come,
And chilling storms are o’er.
The little birds, how sweet they sing!
Oh! let them joyous live;
And never seek to take the life
That you can never give.
Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds,
That play among the trees;
‘Twould make the earth a cheerless place,
Should we dispense with these.
The little birds, how fond they play!
Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs,
Till winter cuts them short.
Don’t kill the birds, the happy birds,
That bless the fields and grove;
So innocent to look upon,
They claim our warmest love.
The happy birds, the tuneful birds,
How pleasant ’tis to see!
No spot can be a cheerless place
Where’er their presence be.