When I was at home I was in a better place

thou art the best o' the cut-throats

When the mind's free, The Body's delicate.

Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

Remembrance of things past.

Thou art a very ragged Wart.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.