There's the mother's call to dinner, there's the landlord's call—for rent!
And the call of the rooks,—and another call, fur off,
Like a whisper from a grave-yard, green and silent.
Some may scoff
At a Cockney's chat of laylocks. I could bury my old phiz
In their crisp and nutty coolness, as I did when flirty Liz,
My first sweetheart, sent me packing, one Spring mornin'—for a while—
And them blossoms cooled my anger—most as much as the arch smile
Which won me back to wooin'.
There's a blackbird on the top