I wish I could welcome the spring, bonnie bird, With a carol as joyous as thine; Would my heart were as light as thy wing, bonnie bird, And thine eloquent spirit-song mine!
The bloom of the earth and the glow of the sky Win the loud-trilling lark from his nest; But though gushingly rich are his paeans on high, Yet, sweet Robin, I like thee the best.
I've been marking the plumes of thy scarlet-faced suit, And the light in thy pretty black eye; Till my harpstring of gladness is mournfully mute, And I echo thy note with a sigh.
For you perch on the bud-cover'd spray, bonnie bird, O'er the bench where I chance to recline; And you chatter and warble away, bonnie bird, Calling up all the tales of "lang syne."
They sang to my childhood the ballad that told Of "he snow coming down very fast; " And the plaint of the Robin, all starving and cold; Flung a spell that will live to the last.
How my tiny heart struggled with sorrowful heaves, That kept choking my eyes and my breath; When I heard of thee spreading the shroud of green leaves O'er the little ones lonely in death.
I stood with delight by the frost-chequer'd pane, And whisper'd, "See, see, Bobby comes!" While I fondly enticed him again and again With the handful of savoury crumbs.
There were traps—there were nets, in each thicket and glen, That took captures by night and by day; There were cages for chaffinch, for thrush, and for wren, For linnet, for sparrow, and jay.
But if ever thou chanced to be caught, bonnie bird, With what eager concern thou wert freed; Keep a Robin enslaved! why, 'twas thought, bonnie bird, That "bad luck" would have follow'd the deed,
They wonder'd what led the young dreamer to rove In the face of a chill, winter wind; But the daisy below, and the Robin above, Were bright things that I ever could find.
Thou wert nigh when the mountain streams gladden'd the sight, When the autumn's blast smote the proud tree; In the corn-field of plenty, or desert of blight, I was sure, bonnie bird, to see thee.
I sang to thee then as thou sing'st to me now, And my strain was as fresh and as wild; Oh, what is the laurel Fame twines for the brow, To the wood-flowers pluck'd by the child!
Oh, would that, like thee, I could meet with all change, And ne'er murmur at aught that is sent! Oh, would I could bear with the dark and the fair; And still hail it with voice of content!
How I wish I could welcome the spring, bonnie bird, With a carol as joyous as thine; Would my heart were as light as thy wing, bonnie bird, And thy beautiful spirit-song mine!
