John Bartlet - Of all the birds - текст песни (слова), перевод

Of all the birds that I do know,
 Philip my sparrow hath no peer.
 For sit she high, or sit she low,
 Be she far off, or be she near,
 There is no bird so fair, so fine,
 Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
 
 For when she once hath felt the fit,
 Philip will cry still: 
 yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet,
 yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet.
 
 Come in a morning merrily
 When Philip hath been lately fed;
 Or in an evening soberly.
 When Philip list to go to bed,
 It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,
 How she can chirp with merry lip,
 
 She never wanders far abroad,
 But is at home when I do call;
 If I command she lays on low
 With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
 She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
 That I believe she hath no peer.