I suppose one of his troubles has been his name, just as with our own catbird.
When he appears in the ballads as the merle, bracketed with his cousin the mavis, the song thrush, it is far easier to recognize him as the master singer that he is.

It is a fine thing for England to have such an asset of the countryside, a bird so common, so much in evidence, so fearless, and such a really beautiful singer.
The thrush is a fine singer too, a better singer than our American robin, but to my mind not at the best quite as good as the blackbird at his best; although often I found difficulty in telling the song of one from the song of the other, especially if I only heard two or three notes.
The larks were, of course, exceedingly attractive.

It was fascinating to see them spring from the grass, circle upwards, steadily singing and soaring for several minutes, and then return to the point whence they had started.

As my companion pointed out, they exactly fulfilled Wordsworth's description; they soared but did not roam.

It is quite impossible wholly to differentiate a bird's voice from its habits and surroundings.