ON SEEING A BIRD-CATCHER.
Oh, let him hear some simple strain—
Some lay his mother taught her boy—
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
Of home, of innocence, and joy.
A sigh will burst, the drops will start,
And all of virtue buried long—
The best, the purest in his heart,—
Is waken'd by his Native Song.
Some lay his mother taught her boy—
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
Of home, of innocence, and joy.
A sigh will burst, the drops will start,
And all of virtue buried long—
The best, the purest in his heart,—
Is waken'd by his Native Song.
Self-exiled from our place of birth,
To climes more fragrant, bright and gay;
The memory of our own fair earth
May chance awhile to fade away:
But should some minstrel echo fall,
Of chords that breathe Old England's fame;
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
True to the land we love and claim.
The high—the low—in weal or woe,
Be sure there's something coldly wrong
About the heart that does not glow
To hear its own, its Native Song.
To climes more fragrant, bright and gay;
The memory of our own fair earth
May chance awhile to fade away:
But should some minstrel echo fall,
Of chords that breathe Old England's fame;
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
True to the land we love and claim.
The high—the low—in weal or woe,
Be sure there's something coldly wrong
About the heart that does not glow
To hear its own, its Native Song.
ON SEEING A BIRD-CATCHER.
Health in his rags, Content upon his face,
He goes th' enslaver of a feather'd race:
And cunning snares, warm hearts; like warblers, take;
The one to sing for sport, the other, break.
He goes th' enslaver of a feather'd race:
And cunning snares, warm hearts; like warblers, take;
The one to sing for sport, the other, break.
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