I walked in the woodland meadows,
                                        
                                        Where sweet the thrushes sing,
                                        
                                        And found on a bed of mosses,
                                        
                                        A bird with a broken wing;
                                        
                                        I healed its wing, and each morning
                                        
                                        It sang its old sweet strain,
                                        
                                        But the bird with the broken pinion,
                                        
                                        Never soared as high again,
                                        
                                        Never soared as high again.