Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

So far as I know, there's no one knows
Much of the inner life of the crows;
But there's something human intertwin'd
With all their habits, and to my mind
The ancient, noisy Rookery
Is as haunted a place as well can be.
The trees with old age are hollow and hoar,
With a rent near the root, like a half-open door;
And the ghastly sound of the hollow ground,
Starts up like a warning wherever you tread;
While the croaking, cawing overhead
Some quaint old woodland brogue appears;
For they say the crow lives a hundred years,—
And you'll often see patriarchal crows
With big white carbuncles on their nose,
That must have taken that time to grow;
And by their cracked old croaks you may know
They are come of an antiquated people:
The creak of the rusty vane on the steeple,
Or the swinging signboard over the way,
Speaks not from an older world than they.

And there's the dilapidated hall,
With its gothic gables and chimneys tall:

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It is part of the Rookery now, I suppose,
Grown into the old-fashion'd life of the crows;
And I make no doubt if the chimneys could speak,
They would tell us the same old carbuncled beak
That croak'd on the roof when the old squire lay,
Fighting with Death for one more breath,
May be heard in the Rookery croaking to-day.

There's the old churchyard, too, they know full well,
Without being told by the funeral bell,
When anything deadly is doing there,
And make narrowing circles in the air,
To reconnoitre, from on high,
The grave where the well-known corpse is to lie.
The well-known corpse, did I say? Ay, ay;
For they know a deal better than you or I
The neighbour that's ailing and going to die.

One evening, when passing the Rookery,
I heard two crows on an outside tree:—
“Quhare haif yo bein, gossip Croak?“ quoth the one:—
Quoth the other, “Just to see quhat good could be done
In the old kirkyard—” “And what your reward?”
“Red worms all over and fine white grubs
At the new-happ'd grave of honest John Stubbs.”—
Quoth the first, “Then to-morrow we'll all of us go,
And hold a grand hilario!”

At weddings, too, have you never seen,
When the couples prance o'er the village green,

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With a smile and smirk on their way to the kirk,
What a skelloching hulla-baloo would arise
As the Rookery emptied into the skies:
For the gossiping rooks without papers or books
Know all the news of the country side—
Croak for the corpse and caw for the bride.

What a busy, busy time in the Rookery,
When spring comes round and nests to be found,
Almost a dozen on every tree!
Four nests deep, how they manage to keep
Each pair to their own, is a marvel to me!
Building the new, and repairing the old,
What a Babel of tongues! how they clamour and scold!
No doubt like us, they have rights to defend,
And perhaps like us, too, they borrow and lend;
While some will thieve, and some show their greed,
By massing up more than they'll ever need—
Which of course will give rise to many a plea,
And they'll have their lawsuits as well as we.
How else account for all this babble,
This “plucking of crows,” and perpetual squabble?

The cawing clamour grows wilder still
When eggs are hatched and mouths are to fill,
Four or five gaping in every nest,
And the old ones alighting from east and west,
From north and south, and far and wide,
With their dainty pickings to dole and divide.

But there comes yet a noisier racket than all

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When the callow young crows flap out on the boughs,
Tempted to fly, yet afraid they fall;
And shooters appear from far and near,
Round the old dilapidated hall—
For the lord of the manor appoints a day,
To come who will and shoot who may;
And the shopkeeper leaves both scoop and scale,
The carpenter stops at a half-driven nail,
The smith drops the hammer, his bellows their blast,
The cobbler kicks into a corner his last,
The tailor jumps up with three cuts and a caper,
Hops over his goose, and is off with the draper,
And student and clerk throw aside their books,—
For all are bent on the same intent—
A regular racketing day at the rooks!

And hark! what a row at the Rookery,
As the shooters make head with their powder and lead,
And the lärum is spread from tree to tree;
The young on the branches, the old in the air,
Screaming a curse and cawing a pray'r;
And as crack, crack, crack go the belching pieces,
The madden'd roar of the siege increases,
Till the quietest sepulchres in the wood
Are shrieking of broken solitude.

But the long and noisy summer day,
Comes to a close; and, with slaughtered crows,
In bunches their foes go marching away;

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Stopping at Publics along the roads
To wet their weazens and rest their loads.—
The evening breeze lifts away the smoke,
And the roar of the Rookery sinks to a croak,—
Croak, croak, half the night through,
About this battle of Rookieloo.

A few more days of golden June,
And the Rookery rises to famous tune.
The young that were spared from the fiery assault,
With full-fledged quill arise at will,
And tumble and wheel through the azure vault.
Both old and young let loose the tongue,
And lord! what a song of madcap glee:
For now their days are idle and long,
And every one a jubilee.
Up, up in the morning, up and away
To some chosen field to feed and play,
And home at night in gossiping flight
And daft delight of their merry day;
All fearless now of the treacherous gun,
Or lure of the wiliest mother's son;
For they scent his powder, see through his trick,
And know when a gun is a gun or a stick:
So a good wide berth they give to their foe,
Slanting aside with an easy glide,
And a fine contempt for all below.

If they knew what an old-fashion'd love I bear
For them, I am sure they would not care
Though I sat up beside them in a tree

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And took down all their history.
For I know they have something worth our ear,
Which all my life I have yearn'd to hear;
But woe is me! it may not be,
They never will let me come so near.
So this is all I may hear or see,
About the rooks and the Rookery.