Alone, confin’d within thy cage,
Thou fearest not the battle’s rage;
Of courage bold, and action brave,
Though in prison—thou’rt not a slave!
If life is spared, some other day,
When I shall chance to come this way,
A present unto thee I’ll bring,
Thou bonny, little woodland thing!
Little spinner, blithe and gay,
Dancing thus thy life away!
A Queen her palace might resign,
For a pillow soft as thine!
TO A BIRD SINGING IN WINTER.
Why, why, little bird, so cheerfully sing,
When all things around look so sad?
The prospect at present, as touching the spring,
Gives cause to be sorry, not glad!
Had April appear’d in loveliest hue,
And made the green meadows look gay,
Thou merrily might’st have mounted thy bough,
And warbled thy minutes away.
But summer’s far off, and still in the copse,
The cold winter’s snow doth descend,
Fierce winds, and sharp frosts, may yet blast thy hopes,
And bring thy sweet song to an end.
By craft of the boys, in bush, or in wood,
Thy foot may be caught in a snare,
And thou whilst seeking a morsel of food,
Be a captive, ere thou art aware.
Why merrily sing, when thou hast no barn,
In which to lay up thy grain?
Why warble thy notes, while unthankful man,
So often is heard to complain?