Page:Poems Cook.djvu/258

I've been marking the plumes of thy scarlet-faced suit,
 And the light in thy pretty black eye;
Till my harpstring of gladness is mournfully mute,
 And I echo thy note with a sigh.

For you perch on the bud-cover'd spray, bonnie bird,
 O'er the bench where I chance to recline;
And you chatter and warble away, bonnie bird,
 Calling up all the tales of "lang syne."

They sang to my childhood the ballad that told
 Of "he snow coming down very fast; "
And the plaint of the Robin, all starving and cold;
 Flung a spell that will live to the last.

How my tiny heart struggled with sorrowful heaves,
 That kept choking my eyes and my breath;
When I heard of thee spreading the shroud of green leaves
 O'er the little ones lonely in death.

I stood with delight by the frost-chequer'd pane,
 And whisper'd, "See, see, Bobby comes!"
While I fondly enticed him again and again
 With the handful of savoury crumbs.

There were traps—there were nets, in each thicket and glen,
 That took captures by night and by day;
There were cages for chaffinch, for thrush, and for wren,
 For linnet, for sparrow, and jay.

But if ever thou chanced to be caught, bonnie bird,
 With what eager concern thou wert freed;
Keep a Robin enslaved! why, 'twas thought, bonnie bird,
 That "bad luck" would have follow'd the deed,

They wonder'd what led the young dreamer to rove
 In the face of a chill, winter wind;
But the daisy below, and the Robin above,
 Were bright things that I ever could find.

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