 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
85
THE OWL'S SOLILOQUY.
'Twas the twilight hour.—“Tuwhit, tuwhoo!”
Said the owl, as he peered the branches through,
Of the grim old churchyard tree;—
“Tuwhit, tuwhoo!” and he plumed his wing;—
They are silent now,—they shall hear me sing,—
That will gladden their hearts,” quoth he.
Said the owl, as he peered the branches through,
Of the grim old churchyard tree;—
“Tuwhit, tuwhoo!” and he plumed his wing;—
They are silent now,—they shall hear me sing,—
That will gladden their hearts,” quoth he.
I'm the king of birds, and 'twould ill agree
With my royal state and my dignity,
To mix with the vulgar throng;
So I wait till the shades begin to fall,
And the earth is hushed,—then I charm them all
With my soft, melodious song.
With my royal state and my dignity,
To mix with the vulgar throng;
So I wait till the shades begin to fall,
And the earth is hushed,—then I charm them all
With my soft, melodious song.
86
If I were to sing in the broad daylight,
I've not the least doubt they would all be quite
As pleas'd and as mute as now;—
But I've often been told—and I think they're right—
That my voice has a grander sound at night,
And my notes a richer flow.
I've not the least doubt they would all be quite
As pleas'd and as mute as now;—
But I've often been told—and I think they're right—
That my voice has a grander sound at night,
And my notes a richer flow.
Aha! there's that silly young bird again,—
That nightingale, with his tedious strain,—
Now really it's very wrong:—
He listen'd to me one summer's eve,
And ever since then, without my leave,
He has tried to learn my song.
That nightingale, with his tedious strain,—
Now really it's very wrong:—
He listen'd to me one summer's eve,
And ever since then, without my leave,
He has tried to learn my song.
Tuwhit,—tuwhoo, tuwhoo, tuwhoo!—
He'll be sensible soon what a vain to-do
He has made with his rivalry.
Indeed, I've a mind myself to teach
The bird, how completely beyond his reach
Is the tone of my minstrelsy.
He'll be sensible soon what a vain to-do
He has made with his rivalry.
Indeed, I've a mind myself to teach
The bird, how completely beyond his reach
Is the tone of my minstrelsy.
87
So, now for a stave!—“Tuwhit, tuwhoo!”
Said the owl, as he flutter'd the branches through,
Of the grim, dark churchyard tree.
And a proud old fellow was he, that hour,
As, perch'd on the top of the belfry tower,
He hooted right dismally.
Said the owl, as he flutter'd the branches through,
Of the grim, dark churchyard tree.
And a proud old fellow was he, that hour,
As, perch'd on the top of the belfry tower,
He hooted right dismally.
| Beads from a Rosary | |