Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave:
Or if thou hadst some softer spell,
Thine ear had stolen from the shell,
That sings amid the silver sand,
That circles round thy native land—
’Twas only when, with wily art,
Thou sought’st to charm thy partner’s heart.
And she is gone—thy joys are fled—
Thy music with thy mate is dead!
Poor bird—upon the roost he sate,