Birds of the land, ye may carol and fly O'er the golden corn 'neath a harvest sky; Your portion is fair 'mid fields and flowers, But it is not so broad or so free as ours. Ye are content with the groves and the hills, Ye feed in the valleys and drink at the rills; But what are the joys of the forest and plain To those we find on the fresh, wide main?
Birds of the land, ye rear your broods In the lofty tree or tangled woods, Where the branch may be reft by the howling wind, Or the prowling schoolboy seek and find. But we roost high on the beetling rock, That firmly stands the hurricane's shock; Our callow young may rest in a home Where no shot can reach, and no footstep come.
Birds of the land, ye shrink and hide As the tempest-cloud spreads black and wide; Your songs are hush'd in cowering fear As the startling thunder clap breaks near. But the brave gull soars while the deluge pours, While the stout ship groans and the keen blast roars: Oh! the Sea-Gull leads the gayest life While the storm-fiends wage their fiercest strife.
We lightly skim o'er the breaker's dash, Where timbers strike with parting crash; We play round the dark hull, sinking fast, And find a perch on the tottering mast: More loud and glad is our shrieking note As the planks and spars of the wreck'd bark float: There live we in revelling glee, 'Mid the whistling gale and raging sea.
We are not caught and caged to please The fondled heirs of wealth and ease; The hands of beauty never come With soft caress or dainty crumb: 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.
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.
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.
