That certain night, the night we met,
there was magic abroad in the air,
there were angels dining at the Ritz
and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
but I'm perfectly willing to swear
that when you turned and smiled at me
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
The moon that lingered over London town,
poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know we two were so in love,
the whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
it was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said good-night,
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue,
to interrupt our rendezvous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
"Was that a dream or was it true?"
Our homeward step was just as light
as the tap-dancing feet of Astaire.
And like an echo far away
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
I know cause I was there
that night in Berkeley Square.