Songs and Lyrics By Joseph Skipsey. Collected and Revised |
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The Blackbird. |
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 | Songs and Lyrics |  |
131
The Blackbird.
“Oh, my wee, wee bonnibell,
Do to me the riddle tell;
Say to whom pipes yon piper on the tree?
And for what I'd like to know,
Can his silver carol flow,
Save for what yet fills his little heart with glee?”
Do to me the riddle tell;
Say to whom pipes yon piper on the tree?
And for what I'd like to know,
Can his silver carol flow,
Save for what yet fills his little heart with glee?”
“Ah, your riddle, I'm afraid,
Sir, may not to-night be read;
But a pebble for your cobble take—and go;
Show me why no bird can sing
When a wild hawk's on the wing?
This back, hobble back to-morrow night and show!”
Sir, may not to-night be read;
But a pebble for your cobble take—and go;
Show me why no bird can sing
When a wild hawk's on the wing?
This back, hobble back to-morrow night and show!”
—Now the sun has left the hill,
And the blackbird's note so shrill
Sends a silver-ringing echo down the dell;
Yet the golden pipe's unheard
Of my own heart-witching bird;
And what whistler ever whistled half so well?
And the blackbird's note so shrill
Sends a silver-ringing echo down the dell;
Yet the golden pipe's unheard
Of my own heart-witching bird;
And what whistler ever whistled half so well?
He avowed he'd meet me here,
And he comes not, and I fear
That his pipe is not so golden after all;
Hark!—ah, no!—Yes, hark!—I hear
A sweet whistle, sweet and clear,
That no blackbird ever blew in bower or hall!
And he comes not, and I fear
That his pipe is not so golden after all;
Hark!—ah, no!—Yes, hark!—I hear
A sweet whistle, sweet and clear,
That no blackbird ever blew in bower or hall!
132
—Yes, a bird of wing may fly
To the apple of his eye;
But how, if he's inclined a wee prank to play?
What if wild-wing'd bird proceed
Just to wet his charming reed,
From a little crimson cherry on the way?
To the apple of his eye;
But how, if he's inclined a wee prank to play?
What if wild-wing'd bird proceed
Just to wet his charming reed,
From a little crimson cherry on the way?
Ah, you've heard a cruel word?
La, no hornet's nest is stirr'd!
But out a bonny bee from its hive here flew;
Where a sweeter wine you'll get
Now your golden reed to wet,
Than a whistler from a cherry ever drew!
La, no hornet's nest is stirr'd!
But out a bonny bee from its hive here flew;
Where a sweeter wine you'll get
Now your golden reed to wet,
Than a whistler from a cherry ever drew!
—To draw water from the well
Down I went into the dell,
Just ere the yellow moon in the sky did glow,
When a blackbird's wily song
Won and kept my ear so long,
That my wee heart went a-maying to my woe!
Down I went into the dell,
Just ere the yellow moon in the sky did glow,
When a blackbird's wily song
Won and kept my ear so long,
That my wee heart went a-maying to my woe!
Now I know what to do—
I a weary way pursue;
Nor the plight of her pet can my dear Aunt tell;
Yet somehow she lets me know
When I next for water go,
I'll not hear a blackbird whistle at the well!
I a weary way pursue;
Nor the plight of her pet can my dear Aunt tell;
Yet somehow she lets me know
When I next for water go,
I'll not hear a blackbird whistle at the well!
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