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THE BIRDS OF KILLING

WORTH.

IT was the season when through all the land

The merle and mavis build, and building sing

Those lovely lyrics written by His hand

Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the
Blithe-heart King;

When on the boughs the purple buds expand,

The banners of the vanguard of the Spring;

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud

Their race in Holy Writ should

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Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,

Speaking some unknown language, strange and sweet

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, hailed

The village with the cheers of all their fleet;

Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed

Like foreign sailors landed in the street

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,

In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;

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food;

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,

Flooding with melody the neighborhood;

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song,

"You slay them all! and wherefore? For the gain

Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat,

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,

Scratched up at random by industrious feet

Searching for worm or weevil after rain,

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet

As are the songs these uninvited guests

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

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For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content.

When now the cock, the ploughman's horne,

Calls forth the lily-wristed morne; Then to thy cornfields thou dost go, Which, though well soyl'd, yet thou dost know,

That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands: There at the plough thou find at thy teame,

With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up, by singing how

The kingdom's portion is the plough; This done, then to the enameled meads

Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,

Thou seest a present godlike power Imprinted in each herbe and flower; And smell'st the breath of great-eyed

kine,

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine: Here thou behold'st thy large sleek

neat

Unto the dew-laps up in meat; And as thou look'st, the wanton steere,

The heifer, cow, and oxe draw neare, To make a pleasing pastime there: These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks

Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox, And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;

And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,

A shepherd piping on a hill.

For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,

Thou hast thy eves and holydayes; On which the young men and maids

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