The Blackbird And one calls for a little page; he strings A little while-and lo! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear-while the Blackbird sings. 1525 The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; The day is dying-still the Blackbird sings. Now the good Vicar passes from his gate Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye His heart is thronged with great imaginings, Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him-who, with lifted hands And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, He smiles as though he said "Thy will be done": His eyes, they see not those illuminings; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898] THE BLACKBIRD WHEN smoke stood up from Ludlow And mist blew off from Teme, The blackbird in the coppice "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; I heard the tune he sang me, Then my soul within me Took up the blackbird's strain, And still beside the horses Along the dewy lane The Blackbird "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; The sun moves always west; The road one treads to labor Will lead one home to rest, And that will be the best." Alfred Edward Housman [1859 1527 THE BLACKBIRD THE nightingale has a lyre of gold; The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all of the joy of life, We too have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together. William Ernest Henley [1849-1903] THE BLACKBIRD Ov all the birds upon the wing An' sparrows, clust'rèn roun' the bough, Vor we do hear the blackbird zing 'Tis blithe, wi' newly-opened eyes, Vrom new-plēshed hedge or new-velled copse, Below the white-barked woak-trees' heads; Vor when my work is all a-done An' there in bwoyhood I did rove Vor crows' aggs up in swayèn trees, An' zoo there's noo pleäce lik' the drong, William Barnes [1821-1886] ROBERT OF LINCOLN MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln 1529 Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. |