THE OWL.
77
Her each bird a buffet gives—
It is strange that still she lives!
More she utters on the hill,
Than the nightingale—at night;
But in hollow tree, she still
Guards her head—in the day-light!
Bird of Gwyn ap Neath![1] too long,
Her unseemly form I’ve known;
Dolt of darkness! whose harsh song
By the thieves is deemed their own;
How I hate her luckless tone!
Never shall I want a lay,
Though her voice were far away.
Firebrands, till the frost is past,
In each ivy-bush I’ll cast!
THE PEDIGREE OF THE OWL.
Creature of the world of gloom!
Owlet with the dusky plume!
With a song-like kitten’s cries,
Less than bunch of down in size;
- ↑ ‘Gwyn ap Neath,’ the faery king.
