Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature: you need not fear Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she; Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves,2 if you can! 1 broods, sits on her eggs to hatch them. 2 knaves, bad fellows. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked1 with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I 1 flecked, streaked or spotted. Summer wanes; 1 the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's 2 a humdrum crone; 3 Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. * 12 * ROBIN REDBREAST. GOOD-BY, good-by to Summer! The garden smiling faintly, Our swallows flown away; But Robin's here, with coat of brown, Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year! 1 wanes, is near its end. 2 Lincoln's, Lincoln is. 3 crone, an old woman. Bright yellow, red, and orange, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; Hang russet on the bough: It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, "Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, And what will this poor Robin do? The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty twigs like iron, The branches plumed with snow,— Alas! in Winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer! W. ALLINGHAM. * 13 * THE BROOK. WHERE are you running so fast, little brook, Stop for a moment, I prithee,' dear brook,- You chatter away as you flow, little brook, Though often I whisper to you, little brook, Oh! what do you say to the birds, little brook, That fly to your bosom to drink? Oh! what do you say to the flowers, dear brook, That cluster so close to your brink? And what do you say to yourself, little brook, The while that I fill my pitcher, dear brook, You are hasting away to the sea, dear brook, You may not delay for a moment, dear brook : 1 I prithee (th sounded as in this), I pray thee. |