Down Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine,

   The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!”

In Wessex accents marked as mine

   Is heard afar and near.

He flutes it strong, as if in song

   No R’s of feebler tone

Than his appear in “pretty dear,”

   Have blackbirds ever known.

Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean,

   Beneath a Scottish sky,

And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen

   Of Middlesex or nigh.

While some folk say—perhaps in play—

   Who know the Irish isle,

’Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there

   When songsters would beguile.

Well: I’ll say what the listening birds

   Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!”—

However strangers sound such words,

   That’s how we sound them here.

Yes, in this clime at pairing time,

   As soon as eyes can see her

At dawn of day, the proper way

   To call is “pret-ty de-urr!”