Our master has a-courting gone
Our mistress up above
And she has asked him for a gift
As a token of his love.
He’s ventured forth across the land,
Spreading seeds of his own demise,
Through wind and rain his voice will strain,
As he seeks a worthy prize.


Singing high, low,
The tune that we know
To the hammer of shell on stone,
Come, come
The search has begun
The Thrush’s anvil rings alone.

He’s found a church up on the Downs
Of Sussex diamond built,
He’s asked the father for a sign
But he’s given naught but guilt.
By that church was an old yew tree,
With rubies it was blessed,
He’s taken one for his own true love,
To treasure in her nest.


He’s flown through seven countries

And to their monarchs sung

To beg exotic presents 

He’s studied every tongue,

But nothing for our mistress

Save a berry black as coal

He’s taken from the elders

As an incidental toll.


He’s met her at the trysting tree

Among the woodland glades
He’s found his miss a mistletoe kiss

Just as the daylight fades,

This trinity of gems he’s brought

Of black and white and red

Lie gleaming in the moonlight 

All upon Miss Thrush’s bed.

The stormcock’s call beckons one and all
To the shelter of safer boughs
For the tempest’s nigh, the water's high,
And dark are the evening clouds...