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140
THE DISGUSTED ROBIN
Having finished a song for the girl of my heart,
I had flung myself down on the toes of a pine
And was humming the words, by the help of a tune
That could marry them prettily, line after line.
I was happy in thinking the place was my own,
When the rudest of robins cried, “Fiddle-de-dee!
What a negative squib of a lover you are!
What contemptible cowardice! Listen to me!”
I had flung myself down on the toes of a pine
And was humming the words, by the help of a tune
That could marry them prettily, line after line.
I was happy in thinking the place was my own,
When the rudest of robins cried, “Fiddle-de-dee!
What a negative squib of a lover you are!
What contemptible cowardice! Listen to me!”
While I flushed with annoyance, I gazed at the bough
Where my critic was airing his apple-round breast
And was vaunting such eloquent phrases as seemed
To be shot by a gun from his resolute chest.
“Now I swear, by the shape of Robina,” he cried,
“That before I would father, and give to a lass,
Such an addled and valueless jingle as that
I would beg to be changed from a bird to an ass!
Where my critic was airing his apple-round breast
And was vaunting such eloquent phrases as seemed
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“Now I swear, by the shape of Robina,” he cried,
“That before I would father, and give to a lass,
Such an addled and valueless jingle as that
I would beg to be changed from a bird to an ass!
“If a poet believes he was born to salute
Every grace of his darling in metre and rhyme,
Let him go for a series of lessons in pluck
To the tit on a currant, the finch on a lime.
As a verseman but lately received in a shire
That is sunny and candid, your task is to learn
An imperative ruling, wise, simple, and brief:
Hold your tongue, if a coward; sing fire, if you burn.
Every grace of his darling in metre and rhyme,
Let him go for a series of lessons in pluck
To the tit on a currant, the finch on a lime.
As a verseman but lately received in a shire
That is sunny and candid, your task is to learn
An imperative ruling, wise, simple, and brief:
Hold your tongue, if a coward; sing fire, if you burn.
“Near the belt of young larches in front, on the right,
There's a dear woman coming, as happy and sweet
As a dewdrop that lives half a day with a rose,
And there's love in the sound of her heather-kissed feet.
Do you dare to pretend that your tape-measured song
Has the requisite valour and spirit and rush?
There's a rabbit-hole yonder. Now, run to her lips!
Show her all that she is and compel her to blush!”
There's a dear woman coming, as happy and sweet
As a dewdrop that lives half a day with a rose,
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Do you dare to pretend that your tape-measured song
Has the requisite valour and spirit and rush?
There's a rabbit-hole yonder. Now, run to her lips!
Show her all that she is and compel her to blush!”
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