In the Appalachian mountains
Up a cove, at Miller's Creek,
Lived a man they called the whistler,
Long white hair, and mild and meek.

Whistler John would sit from sun up
As the fog rose from the hills,
Til the golden ball was setting
You could hear his lonesome trills.

You could hear him talk to robin,
Speak to sparrows, owls at night,
He befriended crows and finches
And the likes of ole Bob White.

As he sat beneath the willow
He would listen hard and long,
Paying mind to his companions,
Naming them by their sweet song.

One evening as the sun was setting
An eagle flew far overhead,
A whippoorwill kept on singing,
But no one answered, John was dead.

As he lay beneath the willow,
The birds sensed something must be wrong,
For a moment there was silence,
John's companions hushed their song.