Volume Iii Part 48 (1/2)

Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; n.o.body knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

THE O'LINCON FAMILY

A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove; Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love: There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,-- A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle,-- Crying, ”Phew, shew, Waldolincon, see, see, Bobolincon, Down among the tickletops, hiding in the b.u.t.tercups!

I know a saucy chap, I see his s.h.i.+ning cap Bobbing in the clover there--see, see, see!”

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery, Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air, And merrily he turns about, and warns him to beware!

”'Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among the rushes O!

But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,--wait a week, and, ere you marry, Be sure of a house wherein to tarry!

Wadolink, Whiskod.i.n.k, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!”

Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow!

Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle and wheel about,-- With a ”Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!-- Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover!

Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow, follow me!”

Wilson Flagg [1805-1884]

THE BOBOLINK

Bobolink! that in the meadow, Or beneath the orchard's shadow, Keepest up a constant rattle Joyous as my children's prattle, Welcome to the north again!

Welcome to mine ear thy strain, Welcome to mine eye the sight Of thy buff, thy black and white.

Brighter plumes may greet the sun By the banks of Amazon; Sweeter tones may weave the spell Of enchanting Philomel; But the tropic bird would fail, And the English nightingale, If we should compare their worth With thine endless, gus.h.i.+ng mirth.

When the ides of May are past, June and Summer nearing fast, While from depths of blue above Comes the mighty breath of love.

Calling out each bud and flower With resistless, secret power, Waking hope and fond desire, Kindling the erotic fire, Filling youths' and maidens' dreams With mysterious, pleasing themes; Then, amid the sunlight clear Floating in the fragrant air, Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure By thy glad ecstatic measure.

A single note, so sweet and low, Like a full heart's overflow, Forms the prelude; but the strain Gives no such tone again, For the wild and saucy song Leaps and skips the notes among, With such quick and sportive play, Ne'er was madder, merrier lay.

Gayest songster of the Spring!

Thy melodies before me bring Visions of some dream-built land, Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, I might walk the livelong day, Embosomed in perpetual May.

Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows; For thee a tempest never blows; But when our northern Summer's o'er, By Delaware's or Schuylkil's sh.o.r.e The wild rice lifts its airy head, And royal feasts for thee are spread.

And when the Winter threatens there, Thy tireless wings yet own no fear.

But bear thee to more southern coasts, Far beyond the reach of frosts.

Bobolink! still may thy gladness Take from me all taint of sadness; Fill my soul with trust unshaken In that Being who has taken Care for every living thing, In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring.

Thomas Hill [1818-1891]

MY CATBIRD A Capriccio

Nightingale I never heard, Nor skylark, poet's bird; But there is an aether-winger So surpa.s.ses every singer, (Though unknown to lyric fame,) That at morning, or at nooning, When I hear his pipe a-tuning, Down I fling Keats, Sh.e.l.ley, Wordsworth,-- What are all their songs of birds worth?

All their soaring Souls' outpouring?