'til coming from the trees I hear the call of the whippoorwill.
I listen to its haunting call as I watch stars appear,
remembering when I was small and simple things were dear.
For when I was a little child and evening came along,
I would often fall asleep while listening to its song.
My mother told me that it was a bird that made the sound,
and where we heard its call, a whippoorwill shoe* could be found.
And next morning we would wander in the woodland on the hill
to look around for pink shoes, left by the whippoorwill.
And when at last I'd find one, I'd know beyond a doubt,
it took a lot of coaxing to bring its beauty out.
A kind of orchid, tho' its wild, it's fine and rare to see.
And I had heard its birthcall, so - a treasure just for me.
Another summer evenin's here, and everything is still.
Then, suddenly we hear it, "Whippoorwill, whippoorwill."
Tomorrow I will go again, my little one in tow,
to wander in the woodland where the whippoorwill shoes grow.
Yes, its call is loud and haunting, and sometimes very shrill,
but I still like to hear it, "Whippoorwill, whippoorwill."
*also called lady slippers