I AM cursed with a cackle whenever I tackle
    A soulful and lilting refrain;
But a frivolous snicker, like some fool in liquor,
    Is not what I seek to attain.
For I have, on the whole, quite a musical soul
    Which I seek to express as I may.
And it’s simply absurd to suppose that a bird,
    Such as I, makes a laugh of his lay.

In early October I’m specially sober
    And loaded with household affairs;
And myself and my wife lead no trivial life
    That inclines us to laugh at our cares,
So, if you should suppose that our song is jocose,
    You’re entitled of course, to your views,
But to us, her and me, it’s a sweet symphony
    And inspired by our mutual muse.

When I soulfully sing in the bourgeoning spring
    With true poetry bursting my heart,
It is hard if I seem to express in my theme
    Some coarse phase of the comical art.
And yet, what’s the good? Since I’m misunderstood
    I’m content to submit to the wrong.
And tho’ “Ock, ock, oo, hoo” may seem funny to you,
    ’Tis to me a delectable song.