 | Poems And Songs |  |
143
TO A ROBIN.
Thou'rt welcome again to our cot, pretty Robin,
Though winter and sorrow thy warblings attend;
Though hearts 'neath the straw thatch are sighing and sobbing,
Still waiting for thee are a crumb and a friend.
The woods of Dalziel are no longer resounding
With song of the blackbird or hum of the bee;
Thy food is no more 'mong the bushes abounding,
And man more than nature provides now for thee.
Though winter and sorrow thy warblings attend;
Though hearts 'neath the straw thatch are sighing and sobbing,
Still waiting for thee are a crumb and a friend.
The woods of Dalziel are no longer resounding
With song of the blackbird or hum of the bee;
Thy food is no more 'mong the bushes abounding,
And man more than nature provides now for thee.
Come, sing us a song of thy summer-time fluttering,
'Mong red and white roses and dew-silvered leaves;
And tell us how early grim Winter came muttering
His threatenings of hail-blasts and icicled eaves.
Who is it that warns thee to fly from the wild-wood
As soon as the dry leaves are rustling around?
Whose voice calls thee back to the haunts of thy childhood,
Whenever the spring-decking primrose is found?
'Mong red and white roses and dew-silvered leaves;
And tell us how early grim Winter came muttering
His threatenings of hail-blasts and icicled eaves.
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As soon as the dry leaves are rustling around?
Whose voice calls thee back to the haunts of thy childhood,
Whenever the spring-decking primrose is found?
Thou com'st, darling bird, when bright fires should be glowing,
Defying the chillness of frost and of snow,
When plentier food should be vigour bestowing,
When riches should think of the needy and low.
But fireless, alas! will be many a dwelling,
And hungry and cold many little ones be,
Who oft in the summer were fondly foretelling
What feasts in the snow-time they'd spread out for thee.
Defying the chillness of frost and of snow,
When plentier food should be vigour bestowing,
When riches should think of the needy and low.
But fireless, alas! will be many a dwelling,
And hungry and cold many little ones be,
Who oft in the summer were fondly foretelling
What feasts in the snow-time they'd spread out for thee.
Thou seem'st, pretty Robin, to gaze at me sadly,—
'Tis surely not thine human sorrows to share;
Dost thou sympathise when, with want fretting madly,
Slaves wish for their masters one tithe of their care?
When fanatic hordes are their battle-blades baring,
When patriot-heroes in cells pine unseen,
When kings are new banquets for war's god preparing,
Doth that, little bird, dim thy jetty eyes' sheen?
'Tis surely not thine human sorrows to share;
Dost thou sympathise when, with want fretting madly,
Slaves wish for their masters one tithe of their care?
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When patriot-heroes in cells pine unseen,
When kings are new banquets for war's god preparing,
Doth that, little bird, dim thy jetty eyes' sheen?
Thou car'st not though empires for rapine are ready,
Begrudging their laurels who fight to be free;
Though England's prompt thunder is pointed and steady,
The dim, awful issue is nothing to thee.
A war-fanning priesthood to thee have no mission,
And none seek to sell thee the right to do wrong;
Thy life is not cursed with the phantom Ambition,
And Freedom herself, Robin, prompts thy sweet song.
Begrudging their laurels who fight to be free;
Though England's prompt thunder is pointed and steady,
The dim, awful issue is nothing to thee.
A war-fanning priesthood to thee have no mission,
And none seek to sell thee the right to do wrong;
Thy life is not cursed with the phantom Ambition,
And Freedom herself, Robin, prompts thy sweet song.
A wizard were I, thou familiar attending,
A little serf-spirit to work all my will,
War's voice would no more with the wood-notes be blending,
No rash, wrathful arm be uplifted to kill.
Earth's poor ones no more would at Winter's voice tremble,
But forth from each hearth a blithe welcome would ring;
Pale Sorrow herself would enjoyment dissemble,
And all be as merry as thou in the spring.
A little serf-spirit to work all my will,
War's voice would no more with the wood-notes be blending,
No rash, wrathful arm be uplifted to kill.
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But forth from each hearth a blithe welcome would ring;
Pale Sorrow herself would enjoyment dissemble,
And all be as merry as thou in the spring.
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