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THE Robin's my criterion of tuneBecause I grow where robins do—But were I Cuckoo bornI'd swear by him—The ode familiar rules the morn.The Buttercup's my whimFor bloom—Because we're orchard-sprung—But were I Britain-bornI'd daisies spurn—None but the Nut October fitsBecause through dropping itThe seasons flit, I'm taught.Without the snow's tableauWinter were lie to me—Because I see New Englandly.The Queen discerns like meProvincially.
