Poems (Cook)/Song of the Carrion Crow

by Eliza Cook

SONG OF THE CARRION CROW.

The wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl,—
 Rare brave beasts are they;
The worm may crawl in the carcass foul,
 The tiger may glut o'er his prey:

The bloodhound may hang with untired fang,—
 He is cunning and strong, I trow;
But Death's stanch crew holds none more true
 Than the broad-wing'd Carrion Crow.

My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam,
 Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching;
Where the clattering chain rings back again
 To the night-wind's desolate screeching.

To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow,
 Merrily rock'd am I;
And I note with delight the traveller's fright
 As he cowers and hastens by.

I scent the deeds of fearful crime;
 I wheel o'er the parricide's head;
I have watch'd the sire, who, mad with ire,
 The blood of his child hath shed.

I can chatter the tales at which
 The ear of innocence starts;
And ye would not mark my plumage as dark
 If ye saw it beside some hearts.

I have seen the friend spring out as a foe,
 And the guest waylay his host;
And many a right arm strike a blow
 The lips never dared to boast.

I have seen the soldier, millions adored,
 Do other than deed of the brave;
When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
 And dug a midnight grave.

I have flutter'd where secret work has been done,
 Wrought with a trusty blade;
But what did I care, whether foul or fair,
 If I shared the feast it made?

A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash;
 A short and heavy groan!
Revenge was sweet—its work was complete—
 The dead and I were alone!

I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek,
 I perch'd on the clammy brow;
And a dainty treat was that fresh meat
 To the greedy Carrion Crow.

I have follow'd the traveller, dragging on
 O'er the mountains long and cold;
For I knew at last he must sink in the blast,
 Though spirit was never so bold.

I hover'd close; his limbs grew stark—
 His life-stream stood to congeal;
And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw
 I should soon have another meal.

He fell, and slept like a fair young bride,
 In his winding-sheet of snow;
And quickly his breast had a table guest
 In the hungry Carrion Crow.

If my pinions ache in the journey I take,
 No resting-place will do
Till I light alone on a churchyard stone,
 Or a branch of the gloomy yew.

Famine and Plague bring joy to me,
 For I love the harvest they yield;
And the fairest sight I ever see
 Is the crimson battle-field.

Far and wide is my charnel range,
 And rich carousal I keep;
Till back I come to my gibbet home,
 To be merrily rock'd to sleep.

When the world shall be spread with tombless dead,
 And darkness shroud all below;
What triumph and glee to the last will be,
 For the sateless Carrion Crow!