The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 48

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?

When my Mimus Carolinensis, (That's his Latin name,) When my warbler wild commences Song's hilarious rhapsody, Just to please himself and me!

Primo Cantante!

Scherzo! Andante!

Piano, pianissimo!

Presto, prestissimo!

Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine?

And now a miraculous gurgling gushes Like nectar from Hebe's Olympian bottle, The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle!

Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's!

But that other caroler, nearer, Outrivaling rivalry with clearer Sweetness incredibly fine!

Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird, Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird?

All one, sir, both this bird and that bird, The whole flight are all the same catbird!

The whole visible and invisible choir you see On one lithe twig of yon green tree.

Flitting, feathery Blondel!

Listen to his rondel!

To his lay romantical!

To his sacred canticle!

Hear him lilting, See him tilting His saucy head and tail, and fluttering While uttering All the difficult operas under the sun Just for fun; Or in tipsy revelry, Or at love devilry, Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, Like an inimitable poet Who captivates the world's heart And don't know it.

Hear him lilt!

See him tilt!

Then suddenly he stops, Peers about, flirts, hops, As if looking where he might gather up The wasted ecstasy just spilt From the quivering cup Of his bliss overrun.

Then, as in mockery of all The tuneful spells that e'er did fall From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise, He snarls, and mews, and flies.

William Henry Venable [1836-1920]

THE HERALD CRANE

Oh! say you so, bold sailor In the sun-lit deeps of sky!

Dost thou so soon the seed-time tell In thy imperial cry, As circling in yon sh.o.r.eless sea Thine unseen form goes drifting by?

I cannot trace in the noon-day glare Thy regal flight, O crane!

From the leaping might of the fiery light Mine eyes recoil in pain, But on mine ear, thine echoing cry Falls like a bugle strain.

The mellow soil glows beneath my feet, Where lies the buried grain; The warm light floods the length and breadth Of the vast, dim, s.h.i.+mmering plain, Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill Of the birth-time's restless pain.

On weary wing, plebeian geese Push on their arrowy line Straight into the north, or snowy brant In dazzling suns.h.i.+ne, gloom and s.h.i.+ne; But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry, At thy majestic height On proud, extended wings sweep'st on In lonely, easeful flight.

Then cry, thou martial-throated herald!

Cry to the sun, and sweep And swing along thy mateless, tireless course Above the clouds that sleep Afloat on lazy air--cry on! Send down Thy trumpet note--it seems The voice of hope and dauntless will, And breaks the spell of dreams.