Idle Moments : :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bird of the night! to thee,
Perched on the forest tree,
Our song we raise;
Thy deeds we celebrate,
And thy great works narrate,
Thy fame we advocate,
In notes of praise.

The turkey may be sweet,
And many birds you meet
Are splendid “fowls;”
Not e'en the eagle bold,
Nor birds with plumage gold,
Nor song birds, young or old,
Can touch thee, owl.

And whence comes thy great name,
Bird of the noble fame!
Of being wise?
'Tis for thy silent tongue,
That oft thy praise is sung,
And oft thy name is rung
Up to the skies.

And many a man's called smart,
Who takes the screech-owl's part,
And holds his tongue;

And then men call him wise,
Though he is “otherwise,”
And laud him to the skies,
His praise is sung.

So we are festive owls,
And like that best of “fowls,”
When day declines;
Abroad we soar at night,
To scenes of joy and light,
To have, while life is bright,
A jolly time.