The wren is one of Britain’s birds, Its song more sweet than praise; Through fields and follies it’s unheard, Yet fills my heart with rays.

It jumps from bough to bough with glee, As though it knows no care; And in the morning light so free, Sings joy that fills the air.

So here’s a toast to all that’s bright, To nature’s sweet delight, For every wren’s soft serenade Is love’s own tender light.

• Robert Burns