Praise of the Cock-thrush

	I heard yesterday beneath the birches

	the voice of the cock-thrush,

	his amorous song finely-phrased to a clear tune,

4	lovely bright language, a merry auspicious gift.

	What sweeter trill could there ever be

	than his little whistling?

	At matins he reads three lessons,

8	his cassock is of feathers in our midst.

	His call and his clear cry from a grove

	are to be heard far over the lands,

	hillside prophet, longing's powerful author,

12	brilliantly-skilled chief bard of the wooded vale.

	He sings every fine voice

	out of dear zeal on stream's edge,

	every good recitation in skilled metre,

16	every tune on the organ, every song,

	every lovely melody for a girl's sake,

	a poetic contest for the best love.

	Preacher and conductor of literature,

20	sweet and clear, pure is his muse,

	poet of Ovid's faultless song,

	May's chief dignity and primate.

	Author of the woodland birds' song,

24	from his birchgrove where lovers meet

	he knows the odes and metres of love,

	a joyous singing voice from a fair glade,

	merry bird which sings on hazel trees

28	in a fair wood, wings of an angel.

	Scarcely would the birds of Paradise

	(the connoiseur loves him)

	be able through skill and feat of correct memory

32	to recite all the song that he sang.