Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee!
That was the song that he sang to me — Sang
from his perch in the willow tree —
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.
My little brown bird,
The song that I heard
Was a happier song than the minstrels sing —
A paean of joy and a carol of spring;
And my heart leaped throbbing and sang with thee
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.
My birdie looked wise
With his little black eyes,
As he peeked and peered from his perch at me
With a throbbing throat and a flutter of glee,
As if he would say —
Sing trouble away,
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.
Only one note
From his silver throat;
Only one word
From my wise little bird;
But a sweeter note or a wiser word
From the tongue of mortal I never have heard,
Than my little philosopher sang to me
From his bending perch in the willow tree —
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.
Come foul or fair,
Come trouble and care —
No — never a sigh
Or a thought of despair!
For my little bird sings in my heart to me,
As he sang from his perch in the willow tree —
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee dee:
Chickadee-dee, chickadee-dee;
Chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee.