So off went the sportsman whistling,
And off, too, went his gun;
And its startling echoes never ceased
Again till the day was done.
And the old crow sat untroubled.
Cawing away in her nook.
For she said; "He'll never kill my birds,
Since I told him how they look.
"Now there's the hawk, my neighbour,
She'll see what'll come to pass soon,
And that saucy, whistling black-bird
May have to change his tune."
When, lo! she saw the hunter
Taking his homeward track.
With a string of crows as long as his gun,
Hanging down his back.
"Alack, alack!" said the mother,
"What in the world have you done?
You promised to spare my pretty birds,
And you've killed them, every one."
"Your birds," said the puzzled hunter;
"Why, I found them in my corn;
And, besides, they are black and ugly
As any that ever were born."
