Thou vocal sprite—thou feathered troubadour!
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger,
Com’st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,
And play in foppish trim the masking stranger?
Philosophers may teach thy whereabout and nature,
But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think ’em,
The school-boy best hath fix’d thy nomenclature,
And poets, too, must call thee “Bob-o-linkum!”
Say, art thou long 'mid forest glooms benighted,
So glad to skim our laughing meadows over—