The Rook sits high when the blast sweeps by, Right pleased with his wild see-saw; And though hollow and bleak be the fierce wind's shriek, It is mock'd by his loud caw-caw. What careth he for the bloom-robed tree, Or the rose so sweet and fair? He loves not the sheen of the spring-time green, Any more than the branches bare. Oh! the merriest bird the wood e'er saw, Is the sable Rook with his loud caw-caw.
Winter may fling crystal chains on the wing Of the fieldfare, hardy and strong; The snow-cloud may fall like a downy pall, Hushing each warbler's song; The starved gull may come from his ocean home, And the poor little robin lie dead; The curlew bold may shrink from the cold, And the house-dove droop his head: But the sable Rook still chatters away, Through the bitterest frost and the darkest day.
He builds not in bowers, 'mid perfume and flowers, But as far from the earth as he can; He weathers the storm, he seeks for the worm, And craves not the mercy of man. Then a health to the bird whose music is heard When the ploughboy's whistle is still; To the pinions that rise, when the hail-shower flies, And the moor-cock broods under the hill: For the merriest fellow the woods e'er saw Is the sable Rook with his loud caw-caw.
We read in the page of the grey-hair'd sage, That misfortune should ne'er bow us down; Yet if Care come nigh, the best of us sigh, And cower beneath his frown. But the Rook is content when the summer is sent, And as glad when its glories face; Then fill, fill to the brim-here's a bumper to him Who sings on through the sun and the shade: For the wisest fellow the world e'er saw Is the sable Rook with his loud caw-caw.
