University of Virginia Library


75

THOMAS THE PEACEMAKER: AN ALLEGORY.

The wind of May was in the wood,
And all the birds were singing,
And leaves, and blossoms many-hued,
From branch and bough were springing.
There was the blackbird's perfect note
With lilac odours blending;
The hurry of the shilfa's throat
To reach the same old ending;
The yellow bunting in the broom;
The linnet, never wanting;
The goldfinch in the apple-bloom;
The pigeon in the planting;—
They piped, and cooed, and whistled sweet;
It was a joy to hear them;
And happy surely he whose feet
Were free to journey near them.

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His name was Thomas, but a scowl
Sat on his scornful features;
To him the lark was but a fowl,
And linnets noisy creatures.
“Curses,” quoth Thomas, “on this din!
This screaming must be put down;
And those of them that won't give in,
By Cromwell! I will shoot down!”
Wheet-wheet! ting-ting! doo-doo! it went—
The gowdspink and the linnet,
The cushat in her leafy tent—
It never slack'd a minute.
When bang! and bang! went Thomas' gun,
It was a double barrel;
And here fell one, and there fell one—
And up comes Keeper Yarrell.
“What's this you're at? And who are you?
These, did they ever harm you?
Poor little finch and croodendoo—
They might have lived to charm you.”

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Then Thomas grinn'd a cynic grin—
“You've such a sweet belief too!
Take my advice, and hold your din,
Or else you'll come to grief too!
“A wink is just as good's a nod,
There's safety in a margin;”
And Thomas drew, and twirl'd the rod,
And ramm'd a double charge in.
Then Keeper Yarrell turn'd and fled,
In terror and in anger,
While birds in hundreds overhead
Flew up with sudden clangour.
The crane, the crow, the daw, the pie,
And fowls of shorter feather,
As if discharged shot up the sky,
And all exclaim'd together.
While all the smaller feather'd race
That practise sylvan music,
Dropt downward to a hiding-place
Among the grass, and grew sick;

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And could not sit, and could not walk,
But flew about at random;
And here in terror shriek'd a hawk
Before a finch in tandem.
“Curses,” quoth Thomas, “on this din!
It must be quenched by vi'lence;
The wood's not worth the walking in
Unless there's perfect silence.”
So bang! he went with might and main;
Bang—bang! and never stopping,
Except to load and fire again,
And down the birds came dropping.
'Twas now a wren, and now a rook,
And now a speckled starling,
And now a robin brought to book,
The country children's darling.
'Twas here a feather, there a wing,
And here a pretty pink toe,
And there a bill that used to sing,
A head that once could think, too.

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And wider Thomas spread his smoke,
And bang! he went the louder;
Till boughs were stript, and twigs were broke,
And blossoms black'd with powder.
Now what was all this cursing for,
And why was all this vi'lence?
Dear Lord! it was a peaceful war,
And all for sake of silence!
I call him bully, tho' the boys
Think Thomas was a hero;
Big Boanerges for his noise,
And for his nerve a Nero.
And rather would prefer, for one,
God's natural creation,
Than hear the barking of his gun,
And see its devastation.