If Ever I See

If ever I see,

On bush or tree,

Young birds in their pretty nest,

I must not, in play,

Steal the birds away,

To grieve their mother's breast.

My mother, I know,

Would sorrow so,

Should I be stolen away;

So I'll speak to the birds,

In my softest words,

Nor hurt them in my play.

And when they can fly

In the bright blue sky,

They'll warble a song to me;

And then if I'm sad

It will make me glad

To think they are happy and free.