From fragrant depths of fir and pine
A thousand odours sweet,
Co-mingled on the zephyrs borne,
The wearied senses greet;
The sunset clouds have turned to gold,
The shadows deepen down,
The green hillside, while atra nox,
Prepares her sable gown.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
When night spreads its mantle
O'er land and on sea,
From the depths of the grove
Comes the lilt that I love:
'tis the call of the chick-a-dee-dee.
Deep silence in the trembling woods,
And now the whispering breeze
Comes murmuring through the river reeds
And dies among the trees;
From humble cot in yonder grove
Blue smoke ascends to Heaven,
And incense to the throne of God
For daily mercies given.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
When night spreads its mantle
O'er land and on sea,
From the depths of the grove
Comes the lilt that I love:
'tis the call of the chick-a-dee-dee.
The air is full of peace and love,
The birds have nestled low,
The lumb'rer seeks his humble cot,
The mill has ceased to go;
Along the Gambo valley now,
The night has fallen down,
And o'er the fir-clad hill-side green,
A silence reigns profound.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
When night spreads its mantle
O'er land and on sea,
From the depths of the grove
Comes the lilt that I love:
'tis the call of the chick-a-dee-dee.
Still lingering by the lakeside calm,
The angler hears a bird
Whose name in ornithology
Perchance was never heard;
It listeth not what family in
The learned would thee class,
We only want to hear thy voice,
Among the river grass.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
When night spreads its mantle
O'er land and on sea,
From the depths of the grove
Comes the lilt that I love:
'tis the call of the chick-a-dee-dee.
Oft woodland sights and sounds recall
The feelings of a day,
Merged in the past, when youthful hope
Stood beckoning on the way;
The odour of the firs is sweet,
The eve-note of a bird
Gives throbs of pleasure more intense
Than sweetest music heard.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
When night spreads its mantle
O'er land and on sea,
From the depths of the grove
Comes the lilt that I love:
'tis the call of the chick-a-dee-dee.
Oft thrill ecstatic fires the pulse,
With hope too glad for earth,
And tells the soul in heaven above,
Such joy can have its birth;
And memory oft deports the past
Into the present hour,
And, plucking out the hurtful thorn,
She giveth us the flower.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
When night spreads its mantle
O'er land and on sea,
From the depths of the grove
Comes the lilt that I love:
'tis the call of the chick-a-dee-dee.
See more of the Devines songs.
From the Latin: Atra nox - dark night.
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