 | Lyrical Poems |  |
234
THE CRICKET ON THE TREE.
The cricket on the tree is the Latin Cicada, Italian Cicala, and the old Greek τεττιξ. I heard it whirring away most musically in a very hot day in June, as I was wending up from the plain of Marathon, by the hill road, across to the Cephissus. It will be observed that all Greek words in κος—shortened into κο by the modern Greeks—have the full accent on the last syllable, like our word engineer; though the Oxonians, perversely pronounce such words with the Latin accent on the antepenult.
As I came up from Marathon,
To high Pentelico,
I heard a cricket on a tree
Singing just so:
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
From morn to night, in sunny light,
With mirth and jollity!
To high Pentelico,
I heard a cricket on a tree
Singing just so:
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
From morn to night, in sunny light,
With mirth and jollity!
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
Burr—wurr—birr—wirr!
What could more happy be?
Cricket on a tree!
Burr—wurr—birr—wirr!
What could more happy be?
Quoth I, thou airy little thing,
I much would like to know,
Why from thy throat, or from thy wing,
The sweet song whirreth so?
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree,
A merry spright, from morn to night,
Thou singest pleasantly.
I much would like to know,
235
The sweet song whirreth so?
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree,
A merry spright, from morn to night,
Thou singest pleasantly.
Birry—birr—wirr, etc.
Then spake to me that airy thing,
Thou mortal, toiling low,
Who hath not heard, both beast and bird,
That man was born to woe?
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
The truth I tell to thee,
I sing because I'm not a man,
But a cricket on a tree!
Thou mortal, toiling low,
Who hath not heard, both beast and bird,
That man was born to woe?
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
The truth I tell to thee,
I sing because I'm not a man,
But a cricket on a tree!
Birry—birr—wirr, etc.
Quoth I, thou cricket sage and sweet,
Men fret and fume, I know,
But I'm a minstrel to my trade,
And let contention go.
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
There's one on earth that shares thy mirth,
The bard is kin to thee!
Men fret and fume, I know,
But I'm a minstrel to my trade,
And let contention go.
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
236
The bard is kin to thee!
Birry—birr—wirr, etc.
The cricket spake—If thou art wise,
Above the human rabble,
I'll shelter thee, beneath my tree,
From each unholy squabble.
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Poet, turn and flee
From Church and State, in high debate,
And find thy home with me!
Above the human rabble,
I'll shelter thee, beneath my tree,
From each unholy squabble.
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Poet, turn and flee
From Church and State, in high debate,
And find thy home with me!
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
The man is wise 'neath sunny skies
Who hums a song with thee!
Cricket on a tree!
The man is wise 'neath sunny skies
Who hums a song with thee!
| Lyrical Poems | |