A little book of tribune verse A number of hitherto uncollected poems, grave and gay |
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THE WREN'S NEST. |
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 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
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THE WREN'S NEST.
“Come, come, Mrs. Brownie,” says young Mr. Wren,
“'Tis time to be building our nest;
For the winter has gone, the spring blossoms have come,
And the trees in green beauty are dressed,
Dressed, dressed,
And the trees in green beauty are dressed.”
“'Tis time to be building our nest;
For the winter has gone, the spring blossoms have come,
And the trees in green beauty are dressed,
Dressed, dressed,
And the trees in green beauty are dressed.”
“O, where shall we build it, my dear little wife,
O where shall we build it?” says he—
“In the sweet woodbine bower, in the rose by the door,
Or way up in the old apple tree,
Tree, tree—
Or way up in the old apple tree?”
O where shall we build it?” says he—
“In the sweet woodbine bower, in the rose by the door,
Or way up in the old apple tree,
Tree, tree—
Or way up in the old apple tree?”
“From woodbine,” says Brownie, “My dear Mr. Wren,
The Sparrows would drive us away,
In the rose by the door cats would eat us I'm sure,
Let us build in the apple tree, pray,
Pray, pray,
Let us build in the apple tree pray.”
The Sparrows would drive us away,
In the rose by the door cats would eat us I'm sure,
Let us build in the apple tree, pray,
Pray, pray,
Let us build in the apple tree pray.”
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So away up in the old apple tree,
Mr. Wren built Brownie's nest,
And 'tis there she sits now, in the white blossomed bough,
With the baby birds under her breast,
Breast, breast,
With the baby birds under her breast.
Mr. Wren built Brownie's nest,
And 'tis there she sits now, in the white blossomed bough,
With the baby birds under her breast,
Breast, breast,
With the baby birds under her breast.
September 11th, 1881.
| A little book of tribune verse | |