Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!

Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now.

Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!

And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,-- Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go?

Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!

And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

William Allingham.

_The Lark and the Rook_

"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark.

"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark; I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray; I've sung my hymn to the parting day; So now I haste to my quiet nook In yon dewy meadow--good-night, Sir Rook!"

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his t.i.tled friend With a haughty toss and a distant bend; "I also go to my rest profound, But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.

The fittest place for a bird like me Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.

"I opened my eyes at peep of day And saw you taking your upward way, Dreaming your fond romantic dreams, An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams; Soaring too high to be seen or heard; And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'

"I trod the park with a princely air, I filled my crop with the richest fare; I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew, And I made more noise in the world than you!

The sun shone forth on my ebon wing; I looked and wondered--good-night, poor thing!"

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice.

"I see no cause to repent my choice; You build your nest in the lofty pine, But is your slumber more sweet than mine?

You make more noise in the world than I, But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"

Unknown.

_The s...o...b..rd_

In the rosy light trills the gay swallow, The thrush, in the roses below; The meadow-lark sings in the meadow, But the s...o...b..rd sings in the snow.

Ah me!

Chickadee!

The s...o...b..rd sings in the snow!

The blue martin trills in the gable, The wren, in the gourd below; In the elm flutes the golden robin, But the s...o...b..rd sings in the snow.

Ah me!

Chickadee!

The s...o...b..rd sings in the snow!

High wheels the gray wing of the osprey, The wing of the sparrow drops low; In the mist dips the wing of the robin, And the s...o...b..rd's wing in the snow.

Ah me!

Chickadee!

The s...o...b..rd sings in the snow.

I love the high heart of the osprey, The meek heart of the thrush below, The heart of the lark in the meadow, And the s...o...b..rd's heart in the snow.

But dearest to me, Chickadee! Chickadee!

Is that true little heart in the snow.

Hezekiah b.u.t.terworth.

_Who Stole the Bird's Nest?_

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do.

I gave you a wisp of hay, But didn't take your nest away.

Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now what do you think?

Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!

I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!

I gave hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take.

Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!

I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now what do you think?

Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"