Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Musical Cadence Sweet, Which In The Wood Around Shall Often And Oft Repeat; Soft As An Angel'S Song That Never Can Give Annoy, Which In The Balmy Notes Shall Tell Me Its Tales Of Joy. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Countries Beyond The Sea, Which In Thy Wand'Rings Oft Thou Pass With A Footstep Free; Lands That Are Ever Green 'Neath Blaze Of The Tropic Spells, Bright With Their Blessed Suns, Where Summer Forever Dwells. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Groves With A Verdure Fair, Waving Their Boughs Of Green O'Er Solitudes Grand And Rare; Groves With A Stillness Sweet, With Cheering And Cooling Shades, Where From Its Cares The Race May Rest In The Leafy Glades. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Birds With A Plumage Gay, That With Their Carols Sweet Give Praise To The God Of Day; Music Of Sad Refrain, Though Fond In Its Tender Chime, Thou In Thy Travels Wide Hast Heard In A Fairy Clime. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Crystalline Brooks At Play, Which With The Murmurs Low Make Sweetest Of Sounds All Day; Winding Through Meadows Wide, And Blossoming Fields Between, Fringed With The Willows Tall On Emerald Banks Of Green. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Flowers That Are Fond And Fair, Filling The Fields Of Earth With Beauty And Fragrance Rare; Wafting An Incense Pure On Every Breeze That Blows, Drawn From The Lily'S Heart And Soul Of The Royal Rose. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, Of Man In His Brightest Homes; Tell If He There Meet Joy, Wherever His Longing Roams; Tell If There'S E'Er A Place Where, All His Ambition Spent, He Toils Throughout All His Days And Knoweth No Discontent. Sing Me A Song, O, Wind, For I Am A-Weary Now; Life, With Its Woes And Cares, Hangs Heavily On My Brow; Sing Me A Song Of Cheer, My Heart That Is Sad To Ease; Sing In Thy Brightness And Joy With Heavenly Harmonies!