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To a Linnet

List to the Linnet on the bough,
He sweetly sings for Spring is now,
He knows not of Einstein’s equations,
And nowt he cares for men’s relations.

Now list to our Geordie down the pit,
His hands are wet with baccy spit,
He knows his coal and stows his stone,
And whilst he toils he grunts and groans.
Now who’s the happiest bird or man?
Of brains and brawn the bird has none,
Yet he sweetly sings upon his bough,
Whilst Geordie delves in darkness now.
So sing, my songster, sing thy song,
‘Tis man, not thou who dost belong,
To a mad world of his own creation,
Whilst thou dost sing in jubilation,
Sing shy Linnet on the bough,
No songster can as sweet as thou,
Thou dost with charm and rapture rouse
The classic chords of music stir.
Sing shy Linnet on the dyke,
Thou singest now the song I like
Thou art the master of them all,
If I were blind I’d know thy call,
He who taught thee how to sing,
Of the song birds, made thou king.