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And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings,
And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.

Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest,
Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun;
His sinking hands seem pointing to the West;

He smiles as though he said "Thy will be done": His eyes, they see not those illuminings;

His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898]

THE BLACKBIRD

WHEN smoke stood up from Ludlow

And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,

The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise."

I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.

Then my soul within me

Took up the blackbird's strain,

And still beside the horses

Along the dewy lane

It sang the song again:

The Blackbird

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;

The sun moves always west;

The road one treads to labor

Will lead one home to rest,

And that will be the best."

Alfred Edward Housman [1859

1479

THE BLACKBIRD

THE nightingale has a lyre of gold;

The lark's is a clarion call,

And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute,

But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,

We too have listened till he sang

Our hearts and lips together.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

THE BLACKBIRD

Ov al the birds upon the wing
Between the zunny showers o' spring,
Var al the lark, a-swingèn high,
Mid zing sweet ditties to the sky,
An' sparrers, clusteren roun' the bough,
Mid chatter to the men at plough;
The blackbird, hoppèn down along
The hedge, da zing the gayest zong.

'Tis sweet, wi' yerly-wakèn eyes
To zee the zun when vust da rise,
Ar, halen underwood an' lops

Vrom new-pleshed hedges ar vrom copse,
To snatch oon's nammet down below
A tree where primruosen da grow;
But ther's noo time the whole da long
Lik' evemen wi' the blackbird's zong.

Var when my work is al a-done
Avore the zettèn o' the zun,
Then blushèn Jian da wa'k along
The hedge to mit me in the drong,
An' stay till al is dim an' dark
Bezides the ashen tree's white bark.
An' al bezides the blackbird's shill
An' runnèn evemen-whissle's still.

How in my buoyhood I did rove
Wi' pryèn eyes along the drove,
Var blackbirds' nestes in the quick-
Set hedges high, an' green, an' thick;
Ar clim' al up, wi' clingèn knees,
Var crows' nestes in swayen trees
While frightened blackbirds down below
Did chatter o' ther well-knowed foe.

An' we da hear the blackbirds zing
Ther sweetest ditties in the spring,
When nippèn win's na muore da blow
Vrom narthern skies wi' sleet ar snow,
But dreve light doust along between
The cluose leane-hedges, thick an' green;
An' zoo the blackbird down along
The hedge da zing the gayest zong.

William Barnes [1801-1886]

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;

White are his shoulders and white his crest.

Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note.
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!

There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,

Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

1481

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

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:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

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;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

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!

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