SONG OF THE SEA-GULLS.
We are not the creatures of petted love,
We have not the fame of the lark or dove;
But our screaming tone rings harsh and wild,
To glad the ears of the fisher's child.
We have not the fame of the lark or dove;
But our screaming tone rings harsh and wild,
To glad the ears of the fisher's child.
He hears our pinions flapping by,
And follows our track with wistful eye,
As we leave the clouds with rapid whirl
To dive 'neath the water's sweeping curl.
He laughs to see us plunge and lave,
While the northern gale is waking the wave;
And dances about 'mid sand and spray,
To mimic the Sea-Gull's merry play.
And follows our track with wistful eye,
As we leave the clouds with rapid whirl
To dive 'neath the water's sweeping curl.
He laughs to see us plunge and lave,
While the northern gale is waking the wave;
And dances about 'mid sand and spray,
To mimic the Sea-Gull's merry play.
We hold our course o'er the deep, or the land,
O'er the swelling tide, or weed-grown strand;
We are safe and joyous when mad waves roll,
We sport o'er the whirlpool, the rock, and the shoal,—
Away on the winds we plume our wings,
And soar, the freest of all free things:
Oh! the Sea-Gull leads a merry life
In the glassy calm or tempest strife.
O'er the swelling tide, or weed-grown strand;
We are safe and joyous when mad waves roll,
We sport o'er the whirlpool, the rock, and the shoal,—
Away on the winds we plume our wings,
And soar, the freest of all free things:
Oh! the Sea-Gull leads a merry life
In the glassy calm or tempest strife.
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