Various - The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 388, September 5, 1829

And when Night's grim and sable band,
Spreads her dim curtains o'er the land,
And all our prospect closes;
Then Philomela, queen of song,
The sweetest of the feather'd throng,
Takes up the theme the whole night long,
While nature all reposes.

Then surely I, the humblest bird,
That e'er among the groves was heard,
Should aid the thankful chorus;
With chirping note I'll join the sound,
For not a Sparrow , 'twill be found,
Without his will falls to the ground,
Who high above reigns o'er us.

But what avail my feeble powers,
When softer notes descend in showers,
Mine are not worth regarding;
No honour'd title gilds my name,
No dulcet notes I e'er could claim;
So worthless I, you may obtain
Two Sparrows for a farthing.

Besides, I ne'er was form'd to sing ,
And so must soar on humbler wing,
Since nature saw it fitter;
But yet my feeble powers I'll try,
And sound my chatt'ring notes on high,
For I am sure you'll not deny
To hear my simple twitter .

My gratitude is doubly due,
For all the hedges 2 2 You will perceive the writer is a hedge-sparrow . in my view,
Afford a verdant cover;
I now can build my nest once more,
From childhood's prying glance secure,
And from the hawk's keen eye, tho' o'er
The sacred bush he hover.

Oh! had I Philomela's tongue,
The thrush's note, or warbling song
Of blackbird, lark, or linnet;
I'd then more gratitude display,
Striving to raise a sweeter lay,
I'd sing the fleeting hours away,
Nor silent be a minute.

But I must quit the trembling spray,
And to my duty fly away,
To pick a straw or feather;
My mate is somewhere on the wing,
I think she's gone some moss to bring,
For we must work while it is spring,
And build our nest together.

So now adieu—I've chirp'd too long,
Must leave the finish of my song
To some more learned bird's son;
Whose mellow notes can charm the ear
With no discordant chatter near;
So now, dear Sir, I'm your sincere
And humble Sparrow.

Ye imp o' death, how durst ye dwell
Within this pure and hallow'd cell,
Thy purposes I ken fu' well
Are to destroy,
And wi' a mortal breathing spell,
To blast each joy!

Yet why upo' so sma' a flower,
Dost thou exert thy deadly pow'r,
And nip fair beauty's natal hour,
Wi' thy vile breath,
It is when wint'ry storms do low'r,
We look for death.

But thou, thou evil one, hast come,
To bring this wee rose to its doom,
Not i' time of woe and gloom,
But i' the spring,
When flowerets just begin to bloom.
And birds to sing.

O fie, begone fra out my sight,
Nor dare attempt such joy to blight,
Thou evil wicked-doing doit,