 | Poems |  |
175
THE CUCKOW.
In a mighty great hurry, the more for he thought
That something to give us much pleasure he brought,
Our Peter approach'd—with a bow and a word,
“I have brought you a rarity, madam, a bird—
“A cuckow, quite fine—I have just knock'd it down:
“See the wound on its back! It is worth half a crown.
“Please to take it,” quoth he,—and a simper put on,
Plainly spoke, what a feat, he suppos'd, he had done.
That something to give us much pleasure he brought,
Our Peter approach'd—with a bow and a word,
“I have brought you a rarity, madam, a bird—
“A cuckow, quite fine—I have just knock'd it down:
“See the wound on its back! It is worth half a crown.
“Please to take it,” quoth he,—and a simper put on,
Plainly spoke, what a feat, he suppos'd, he had done.
With a tear in her eye Molly seiz'd the poor slave,
And a stroke and a kiss to the flutterer gave.
Then to Peter, astounded, “thou cruel, said she,
Expect nor reward, nor applauses from me;
What injury, pray, had this innocent done,
That thus thou shou'd'st treat it?—I pr'ythee begone;
Learn, learn more humanity:—think what a shame,
At once a poor bird to enslave and to maim!
Pretty rogue,—perhaps perch'd on some favourite tree,
Thy lonely mate droops, and sits longing for thee!
And ah! were it not for this horrible blow,
Wing'd with comfort and liberty strait shou'd'st thou go:
But I'll try to relieve thee, sweet bird, and dismiss—”
And she strok'd it again,—gave a tear and a kiss:
Then her maidens croud round with much hurry and care,
And basket, and flannel, and spirits prepare—
While Peter sneak'd off—but was heard to complain,
That oft our best efforts to please are in vain!
And a stroke and a kiss to the flutterer gave.
Then to Peter, astounded, “thou cruel, said she,
Expect nor reward, nor applauses from me;
What injury, pray, had this innocent done,
That thus thou shou'd'st treat it?—I pr'ythee begone;
Learn, learn more humanity:—think what a shame,
At once a poor bird to enslave and to maim!
Pretty rogue,—perhaps perch'd on some favourite tree,
Thy lonely mate droops, and sits longing for thee!
And ah! were it not for this horrible blow,
Wing'd with comfort and liberty strait shou'd'st thou go:
But I'll try to relieve thee, sweet bird, and dismiss—”
And she strok'd it again,—gave a tear and a kiss:
Then her maidens croud round with much hurry and care,
And basket, and flannel, and spirits prepare—
While Peter sneak'd off—but was heard to complain,
That oft our best efforts to please are in vain!
Tho' sad was the moral, for him it was good.
For myself, the transaction with rapture I view'd:
For oh! my Maria, what bliss must be mine,
To reign the sole lord in a bosom like thine!
For myself, the transaction with rapture I view'd:
For oh! my Maria, what bliss must be mine,
To reign the sole lord in a bosom like thine!
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