Till she, one autumn evening, died;—
And now upon his perch he clung,
With ruffled plumes and spirits low,
His carol hushed; or, if he sung,
'Twas some sad warble of his wo.
His little mistress came with seed:—
Alas! he would not, could not, feed.
She filled his cup with crystal dew;
She called—she whistled:—'twould not do;
The little mourner bowed his head,