Of yon tall, half bare acacia, pipes as if he'd never stop,
Tryin' all his tunelets over, like a sort of talking flute:—
"Chip-chip! Tsee-tsee! Chu-chu! Chu-rook!" goes the bird of sable suit.
"We-know-it! We-know-it! We-know-it! Bring-the-whip!—the whip!—the whip!
"Chu-rook-chu-chu! Chu-rook-chu-chu! Tsee-tsee-chu-chu-chip-chip!"
So he pours his pantin' heart out in a song half tune, half patter,
Like a meller music-haller of the tree-tops!
Ah—what matter
That 'tis only London's outskirts, that I'm a poor Cockney cove,
When this Wondrous Spring is on us? As my shallow on I shove,