The Yellowhammer.
IIN fairy glen of Woodilee,One sunny summer morning,I plucked a little birchen tree,The spongy moss adorning;And bearing it delighted home,I planted it in garden loam,Where, perfecting all duty,It flowered in tassel’d beauty.When delicate April in each dellWas silently completingHer ministry in bud and bell,To grace the summer’s meeting;My birchen tree of glossy rindDetermined not to be behind;So with a subtle powerThe buds began to flower.And I could watch from out my houseThe twigs with leaflets thicken;From glossy rind to twining boughsThe milky sap ’gan quicken.And when the fragrant form was greenNo fairer tree was to be seen,All Gartshore woods adorning,Where doves are always mourning.But never dove with liquid wing,Or neck of changeful gleaming,Came near my garden tree to singOrcroodleout its meaning.But this sweet day, an hour ago,A yellowhammer clear and low,In love and tender pityThrilled out his dainty ditty.And I was pleased, as you may think,And blessed the little singer:‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink,Dear little bird! and bring her;And build your nest among the boughs,A sweet and cosy little houseWhere ye may well content ye,Since true love is so plenty.And when she sits upon her nest,Here are cool shades to shroud her.’At this the singer sang his best,O louder yet, and louder;Until I shouted in my glee,His song had so enchanted me.No nightingale could pant onIn joy so wise and wanton.But at my careless noise he flew,And if he chance to bring herA happy bride the summer thro’’Mong birchen boughs to linger,I’ll sing to you in numbers highA summer song that shall not die,But keep in memory clearlyThe bird I love so dearly.
IIN fairy glen of Woodilee,One sunny summer morning,I plucked a little birchen tree,The spongy moss adorning;And bearing it delighted home,I planted it in garden loam,Where, perfecting all duty,It flowered in tassel’d beauty.When delicate April in each dellWas silently completingHer ministry in bud and bell,To grace the summer’s meeting;My birchen tree of glossy rindDetermined not to be behind;So with a subtle powerThe buds began to flower.And I could watch from out my houseThe twigs with leaflets thicken;From glossy rind to twining boughsThe milky sap ’gan quicken.And when the fragrant form was greenNo fairer tree was to be seen,All Gartshore woods adorning,Where doves are always mourning.But never dove with liquid wing,Or neck of changeful gleaming,Came near my garden tree to singOrcroodleout its meaning.But this sweet day, an hour ago,A yellowhammer clear and low,In love and tender pityThrilled out his dainty ditty.And I was pleased, as you may think,And blessed the little singer:‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink,Dear little bird! and bring her;And build your nest among the boughs,A sweet and cosy little houseWhere ye may well content ye,Since true love is so plenty.And when she sits upon her nest,Here are cool shades to shroud her.’At this the singer sang his best,O louder yet, and louder;Until I shouted in my glee,His song had so enchanted me.No nightingale could pant onIn joy so wise and wanton.But at my careless noise he flew,And if he chance to bring herA happy bride the summer thro’’Mong birchen boughs to linger,I’ll sing to you in numbers highA summer song that shall not die,But keep in memory clearlyThe bird I love so dearly.
IIN fairy glen of Woodilee,One sunny summer morning,I plucked a little birchen tree,The spongy moss adorning;And bearing it delighted home,I planted it in garden loam,Where, perfecting all duty,It flowered in tassel’d beauty.
I
When delicate April in each dellWas silently completingHer ministry in bud and bell,To grace the summer’s meeting;My birchen tree of glossy rindDetermined not to be behind;So with a subtle powerThe buds began to flower.
And I could watch from out my houseThe twigs with leaflets thicken;From glossy rind to twining boughsThe milky sap ’gan quicken.And when the fragrant form was greenNo fairer tree was to be seen,All Gartshore woods adorning,Where doves are always mourning.
But never dove with liquid wing,Or neck of changeful gleaming,Came near my garden tree to singOrcroodleout its meaning.But this sweet day, an hour ago,A yellowhammer clear and low,In love and tender pityThrilled out his dainty ditty.
And I was pleased, as you may think,And blessed the little singer:‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink,Dear little bird! and bring her;And build your nest among the boughs,A sweet and cosy little houseWhere ye may well content ye,Since true love is so plenty.
And when she sits upon her nest,Here are cool shades to shroud her.’At this the singer sang his best,O louder yet, and louder;Until I shouted in my glee,His song had so enchanted me.No nightingale could pant onIn joy so wise and wanton.
But at my careless noise he flew,And if he chance to bring herA happy bride the summer thro’’Mong birchen boughs to linger,I’ll sing to you in numbers highA summer song that shall not die,But keep in memory clearlyThe bird I love so dearly.