 | Poetic trifles |  |
4
What came of firing a Gun.
Ah! there it falls, and now 'tis dead;
The shot went through its pretty head,
And broke its shining wing!
How dull and dim its closing eyes!
How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!
Poor harmless little thing!
The shot went through its pretty head,
And broke its shining wing!
How dull and dim its closing eyes!
How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!
Poor harmless little thing!
It was a lark, and in the sky,
In mornings fine it mounted high,
To sing a merry song;
Cutting the fresh and healthy air,
It whistled out its music there,
As light it skimm'd along.
In mornings fine it mounted high,
To sing a merry song;
Cutting the fresh and healthy air,
It whistled out its music there,
As light it skimm'd along.
Poor little bird!—if people knew
The sorrows little birds go through,
I think that even boys
Would never call it sport and fun,
To stand and fire a frightful gun,
For nothing but the noise.
The sorrows little birds go through,
I think that even boys
Would never call it sport and fun,
To stand and fire a frightful gun,
For nothing but the noise.
| Poetic trifles | |