I WAS up with the larks, or to be more accurate the blackbirds and song thrushes, to listen to the dawn chorus in a wood near Tillicoultry.

This is such a vibrant time of year and the melodies that rang out from this little piece of woodland were so addictive to the ear.

In the cool still morning air, I could hear robins and the soft tinkling call of a goldfinch, but there were two songsters that stood head and shoulders above the rest – the song thrush and blackbird.

I always regard it as a bit of toss-up between these two as to which is the best singer. The poet William Henley certainly left in no doubt his reverence for the blackbird when he wrote: “The nightingale has a lyre of gold/The lark’s is a clarion call/And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute/But I love him best of all.”

On the other hand, Thomas Hardy was more of a passionate enthusiast for the rich melodies uttered by the song thrush, which he described as that "ecstatic sound" and the "evensong of joy unlimited".

On balance, I reckon Hardy is right, for it is hard to match the range and liquid flow of notes so eagerly delivered by a song thrush at dawn and dusk.

It is estimated that the bird has a repertoire of over 100 different phrases, with a real tendency to repeat some.

This was remarked upon by Robert Browning in his poem Home Thoughts from Abroad. “That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over/Lest you should think he never could recapture/The first fine careless rapture!”

As I walked further along the woodland path another burst of high-pitched music came into play. It was a dunnock, short and to the point, but the song very pleasant nonetheless. I was hoping to hear a wren too, but none were around.

This was a pity because the wren is an incredible songster, spilling forth a rich volley of notes that belies its tiny stumpy form. The cock wren puts every ounce of energy into his song, the wings and tail vibrating with sheer passion. It is the power of spring, the season of renewal.

@BroomfiedKeith