Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes; the children are grown; Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Chee, chee, chee. William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] THE O'LINCON FAMILY A FLOCK of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove; Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love: There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle, A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle,— Crying, "Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bobolincon, Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups! The Bobolink I know a saucy chap, I see his shining cap 1531 Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,-wait a week, and, ere you marry, Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!" Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow! Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle and wheel about, With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon! Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover! Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow, fol low me!" Wilson Flagg [1805-1884] THE BOBOLINK BOBOLINK! that in the meadow, Keepest up a constant rattle Joyous as my children's prattle, Brighter plumes may greet the sun But the tropic bird would fail, When the ides of May are past, Filling youths' and maidens' dreams With mysterious, pleasing themes; Floating in the fragrant air, Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure By thy glad ecstatic measure. A single note, so sweet and low, Like a full heart's overflow, Forms the prelude; but the strain For the wild and saucy song Leaps and skips the notes among, With such quick and sportive play, Gayest songster of the Spring! My Catbird But when our northern Summer's o'er, Bobolink! still may thy gladness In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring. 1533 Thomas Hill [1818-1891] MY CATBIRD A CAPRICCIO NIGHTINGALE I never heard, Nor skylark, poet's bird; (Though unknown to lyric fame,) That at morning, or at nooning, When I hear his pipe a-tuning, Down I fling Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,― What are all their songs of birds worth? All their soaring Souls' outpouring? When my Mimus Carolinensis, (That's his Latin name,) When my warbler wild commences Song's hilarious rhapsody, Just to please himself and me! Primo Cantante! Scherzo! Andante! Piano, pianissimo! Presto, prestissimo! Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine? Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird, Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird? Listen to his rondel! To his lay romantical! To his sacred canticle! Hear him lilting, See him tilting His saucy head and tail, and fluttering All the difficult operas under the sun Just for fun; Or in tipsy revelry, Or at love devilry, Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, Like an inimitable poet Who captivates the world's heart And don't know it. Hear him lilt! See him tilt! Then suddenly he stops, Peers about, flirts, hops, As if looking where he might gather up The wasted ecstasy just spilt From the quivering cup Of his bliss overrun. Then, as in mockery of all The tuneful spells that e'er did fall |