The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the Heavenly City, The birds, who make sweet music for us all, In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. The thrush that carols at the dawn of day, From the green steeples of the piny woods, Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests and have the gift of song.