And when the May came with Miss Flora and Spring, They had nought but old cares and new sorrows to sing; For some of the lady birds ceased to be kind To their old loves, and changed for new-comers their mind; And some had resolved to keep single that year, Until St. Valentine with the next should appear.

The birds sung their sorrows the whole Summer long, And the Robin first mixed up his ills with his song: He sung of his griefs--how in love he'd been crossed, And gave up his heart as eternally lost; 'T was burnt to a coal, as sly Cupid let fall A spark that scorched through both the feathers and all.

To cure it Time tried, but ne'er found out the way, So the mark on his bosom he wears to this day: And when birds are all silent, and not a leaf seen On the trees, but the ivy and holly so green, In frost and in snow little Robin will sing, To put off the sorrow that ruffles his wing.

And that is the cause in our gardens we hear The Robin's sweet note at the close of the year.

The Wagtail, too, mourned in his doublet of grey, As if powdered with rime on a dull winter's day; He twittered of love--how he courted a fair, Who altered her mind, and so made him despair.

In a stone-pit he chose her a place for a nest, But she, like a wanton, but made it a jest.

Though he dabbled in brooks to convince her how kind He would feed her with worms which he laboured to find, Till he e'en got the ague, still nought could prevail, So ever since then he's been wagging his tail.

In the whitethorn the Linnet bides lonely to sing How his lady-love shunned his embraces in Spring, Though he found out a bush that the sun had half drest With leaves quite sufficient to shelter their nest; And yet she forsook him, no more to be seen, So that is the reason he dresses in green.

Then aloud in his grief sings the gay speckled Thrush, That changes his music on every bush-- "My love she has left me to sorrow and mourn, Yet I hope in my heart she'll repent and return;"

So he tries at all notes her approval to meet, And that is the reason he singeth so sweet.

And as sweet sang the Bullfinch, although he confest That the anguish he felt was more deep than the rest, And they all marvelled much how he'd spirits to sing, When to show them his anguish he held up his wing; From his throat to his tail not a feather was found But what had been stained red with blood from the wound.

And sad chirped the Sparrow of joys fled and gone, Of his love being lost he so doted upon; So he vowed constant silence for that very thing, And this is the reason why Sparrows don't sing.

Then next came the Rook and the sorrowful Crow, To tell birds the cause why in mourning they go, Ever since their old loves their embraces forsook; And all seemed to pity the Crow and the Rook.

The Jay he affected to hide his despair, And rather than mourn he had spirits to wear A coat of all colours, but in it some blue Denoted his pa.s.sion; though crossed, 't was true; So now in lone woods he will hide him all day, And aloud he scolds all that intrude in his way.

The Magpie declared it should never be said That he mourned for a lover, though fifty had fled; Yet his heart all the while was so burnt and distrest, That it turned all the feathers coal-black on his breast.

The birds they all marvelled, but still he denied, And wore a black cap his deep blushes to hide; So that is the reason himself and his kin Wear hoods with the lappets quite under the chin.

Then last came the Owl, grieving loud as he flew, Saying how his false lover had bade him adieu; And though he knew not where to find her or follow, Yet round their old haunts he would still whoop and halloo, For no sleep could he get in his sorrowful plight.

So that is the reason Owls halloo at night.

And here ends the song of each woe-stricken bird.

Now was a more pitiful story e'er heard?

The rest were all coupled, and happy, and they Sung the old merry songs which they sing at this day: And good little boys, when this tale they read o'er, Will ne'er have the heart to hurt birds any more, And add to the griefs they already have sung By robbing their nests of their eggs and their young; But feel for their sufferings, and pity their pain, Nor give them new cause of their lot to complain.

FAREWELL AND DEFIANCE TO LOVE

[After Sir John Harrington]

[From the "European Magazine" March, 1826]

Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast!

No longer will I court thy stay, To be my bosom's teasing guest.

Thou treacherous medicine--reckon'd pure; Thou quackery of the hara.s.s'd heart, That kills what it pretends to cure, Life's mountebank thou art.

With nostrums vain of boasted powers, That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; An asp hid in a group of flowers, That bites and stings when few perceive; Thou mock-peace to the troubled mind, Leading it more in sorrow's way, Freedom that leaves us more confined, I bid thee hence away.

Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond The resolution reason gave?

Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, That kept me once thy quiet slave, And made thy snare a spider's thread, Which e'en my breath can break in twain; Nor will I be, like Sampson, led To trust thy wiles again.

Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy wayward freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as e'er they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, tho' thick with darts to kill.

Share all mortalities.

Heed the young bard, who madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till music melts to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes.

Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sober'd from such phantasies, So get thee hence away.

Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That reason turns thy pampered ape, And acts thy harlequin, to show That care's in every shape.

Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are aught but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny.

I'll weep and sigh when e'er she wills To frown--and when she deigns to smile It will be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise.

THE GIPSY'S SONG

The gipsy's life is a merry life, And ranting boys we be; We pay to none or rent or tax, And live unt.i.th'd and free.

None care for us, for none care we, And where we list we roam, And merry boys we gipsies be, Though the wild woods are our home.

And come what will brings no dismay; Our minds are ne'er perplext; For if to-day is a swaly day, We meet with luck the next.

And thus we sing and kiss our mates, While our chorus still shall be,-- Bad luck to tyrant magistrates, And the gipsies' camp still free.

To mend old pans and bottom chairs Around the towns we tramp, Then a day or two our purse repairs, And plenty fills our camp; And our song we sing, and our fiddles sound Their catgut harmony, While echo fills the woods around With gipsy liberty.

The green gra.s.s is our softest bed, The sun our clock we call, The nightly sky hangs over head, Our curtains, house, and all.

Tho' houseless while the wild winds blow, Our joys are uncontroll'd; We barefoot dance through Winter's snow, When others die with cold.

Our maidens they are fond and free, And lasting are their charms; Brown as the berry on the tree, No sun their beauty harms: Their beauties are no garden blooms, That fade before they flower; Unshelter'd where the tempest comes, They smile in sun and shower.

And they are wild as the woodland hare, That feeds on the evening lea; And what care we for ladies fair, Since ours are fond and free?

False hearts hide in a lily skin, But ours are coa.r.s.e and fond; No parson's fetters link us in,-- Our love's a stronger bond.

Tho' wild woods are our house and home, 'T is a home of liberty; Free as the Summer clouds we roam, And merry boys we be.

We dance and sing the year along, And loud our fiddles play; And no day goes without its song, While every month is May.

The hare that haunts the fallow ground, And round the common feeds; The fox that tracks the woodland bounds, And in the thicket breeds; These are the neighbours where we dwell, And all the guests we see, That share and love the quiet well Of gipsy liberty.

The elements are grown our friends, And leave our huts alone; The thunder-bolt, that shakes and rends The cotter's house of stone, Flies harmless by the blanket roof, Where the winds may burst and blow, For our camps, tho' thin, are tempest proof, We reck not rain and snow.

May the lot we've met our lives befall, And nothing worse attend; So here's success to gipsies all, And every gipsy's friend.

And while the a.s.s that bears our camp Can find a common free, Around old England's heaths we'll tramp In gipsy liberty.

PEGGY BAND