Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
 |
 |
TO A BOB-A-LINK. |
|
|
 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
TO A BOB-A-LINK.
Bard amongst birds! whose music prime
Makes glad our early summer-time;
Could I infuse into my rhyme
Thy jolly spirit,
How would the jingling numbers chime
With matchless merit!
Makes glad our early summer-time;
Could I infuse into my rhyme
Thy jolly spirit,
How would the jingling numbers chime
With matchless merit!
20
Your temper never ranges low;
Indeed, such is your spirit's flow,
A certain smartness goes to show
You'll take repute in
That class, or order, which we know
As “highfalutin.”
Indeed, such is your spirit's flow,
A certain smartness goes to show
You'll take repute in
That class, or order, which we know
As “highfalutin.”
How from the tall, see-sawing spray
You chant your crazy roundelay;
Or, chatting on your devious way,
Anon you pass,
Till whim your flight and lyric stay
In the tall grass.
You chant your crazy roundelay;
Or, chatting on your devious way,
Anon you pass,
Till whim your flight and lyric stay
In the tall grass.
Some birch-deserving youth I've seen,
Whose act and aim alike were mean,
Sneak slyly near thy leafy screen,
And round thy head
Let fly a direful volley keen
Of fire and lead.
Whose act and aim alike were mean,
Sneak slyly near thy leafy screen,
And round thy head
Let fly a direful volley keen
Of fire and lead.
But, lo! unharmed you took to wing,
And, as you flitted, seemed to sing:—
“Shoot Bob-a-link! you trifling thing!
Shoot Bob-a-link!
Your neck—Jack Ketch—some day—the string,
I think, think, think!”
And, as you flitted, seemed to sing:—
“Shoot Bob-a-link! you trifling thing!
Shoot Bob-a-link!
Your neck—Jack Ketch—some day—the string,
I think, think, think!”
You're up and stirring in the morn;
Scarce has the cock'rel blown his horn
Ere to my waking ears is borne
Thy half-heard lay,
Telling me sluggish sleep to scorn,
For comes the day.
Scarce has the cock'rel blown his horn
Ere to my waking ears is borne
Thy half-heard lay,
Telling me sluggish sleep to scorn,
For comes the day.
21
At noon, when, as a general thing,
Your neighbor songsters fold the wing,
And languidly forbear to sing,
My ears take heed
That merry Bob is wandering
About the mead.
Your neighbor songsters fold the wing,
And languidly forbear to sing,
My ears take heed
That merry Bob is wandering
About the mead.
When sinks the setting sun away,
You prattle good-night to the day;
And homeward in the gloaming gray
As I retire,
You cheerly change from grave to gay
My droning lyre.
You prattle good-night to the day;
And homeward in the gloaming gray
As I retire,
You cheerly change from grave to gay
My droning lyre.
To the pale cit thy chance-heard strain
Brings back his early days again;
The flowering meads, the emerald plain,
Brooks, “banks, and braes;”
The golden links in memory's chain,—
His brightest days.
Brings back his early days again;
The flowering meads, the emerald plain,
Brooks, “banks, and braes;”
The golden links in memory's chain,—
His brightest days.
Oh, Bobby! thou'rt a biped rare!
Call on your kin—I've lots to spare;
Take choice, and build upon them where
It suits you best;
I'll brand the villain hands that dare
Disturb your nest.
Call on your kin—I've lots to spare;
Take choice, and build upon them where
It suits you best;
I'll brand the villain hands that dare
Disturb your nest.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |