Beauteous to behold is the placid place,
And blessed with bliss is the bird and its race,
That rummages through the ramages of the trees,
To peck the fruits scrumptious in the gentle breeze.

The brook flowing beneath is glowing in gloaming,
Flinging pebbles small slowly on its moving;
And whisper with rustling all through its route,
In the air, the Cuckoo’s poised canorous note.

The well-spring of glee in my weird world,
Winding-down worries from my wearied mind and sad;
Wither you flit, blithe and blissful bird,
Wake I am the ecstatic songs thine to be heard.

No shifts for you to work, ye happy bird,
Nor to meet the evenings ever tired;
No dinner in hungry stomachs to gorge,
Nor have you the peccable minds to forge.

Wake we to work and work, and work till night,
With all our endless efforts and might,
And rest we in beds a little while to make
The tired minds and bodies afresh, Lo! again to wake.

Fly away and bring me into your blissful region,
From the land perilous with farragoes legion;
Or come out to make my dull soul be shone,
From your coppices dark and fully-grown.

Ye, enchorial to the ever ecstatic world,
Take me to live ever in thine joyous shade;
Cos, agonizing is the life here and there,
As the Ten Plagues occurring altogether.