’Twas some sad warble of his wo.
His little mistress came with seed—
Alas! he would not—could not feed.
She filled the cup with crystal dew,
She called—she whistled—’twould not do;
The little mourner bowed his head,
And gently peeped,—“my mate is dead!”
Alas, poor Phil—how changed art thou!
The gayest once—the saddest now.
The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,