“Time was when I was free as air,
The thistle’s downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perched at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.
“But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date;
For caught and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon passed the wiry grate.
“Thanks, gentle author of my woes,
Thanks for this most effectual close
And cure of every ill.
Never your cruelty repress!
For I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.”
THE CROSSBILL. (Loxia curvirostra.)