Classic Poem

WHOSE FAVOURITE BIRD WAS ALMOST KILLED BY A FALL FROM HER FINGER .

A S Tiney, in a wanton mood,
Upon his Lucy's finger stood,
Ambitious to be free;
With breast elate he eager tries
By flight to reach the distant skies,
And gain his liberty.

Ah! luckless bird, what though caress'd,
And fondled in the fair-one's breast,
Taught e'en by her to sing;
Know that to check thy temper wild,
And make thy manners soft and mild,
Thy mistress cut thy wing.

The feather'd tribe, who cleave the air,
Their weights by equal plumage bear,
And quick escape our pow'r;
Not so with Tiney, dear delight,
His shorten'd wing repress'd his flight,
And threw him on the floor.

Stunn'd with the fall, he seem'd to die,
For quickly clos'd his sparkling eye,
Scarce heav'd his pretty breast;
Alarmed for her favourite care,
Lucy assumes a pensive air,
And is at heart distrest.

The stoic soul, in gravest strain,
May call these feelings light and vain,
Which thus from fondness flow;
Yet, if the bard arightly deems,
'Tis nature's fount which feeds the streams
That purest joys bestow.

So, should it be fair Lucy's fate,
Whene'er she wills a change of state,
To boast a mother's name;
These feelings then, thou charming maid,
In brightest lines shall be display'd,
And praise uncensur'd claim.