Classic Poem

Y E'VE come far too early,
My bonnie bluebird;
There's no sign of green leaves,
Of summer no word.
What tempted you here from
The green sunny bow'rs
Of the sweet smiling South and
The region of flow'rs?

Thou'rt chasing a phantom!
Some folly, I fear,
Has urged thee, my bluebird,
To venture forth here.
Thou type of the herald,
Who comes to proclaim
The advent of peace in
Strife's weary domain.

The Bard, who still hopes for,
'Mid sorrow and pain,
The “good time that's coming,”
Love's long-looked-for reign,
Has come far too early,
My poor bird, like thee;
The good times ye sing of
Ye'll no likely see.

Cold days are to come yet,
And deep drifts of snow,
And storms from the bleak north,
Ere winter shall go.
There are tempests for thee, bird,
Ere spring comes with peace,
And tears, toil, and trouble,
Ere man's sorrows cease.

Like thee, my poor bird, I
Was tempted to roam,
By the distant, the future,
The lovely unknown:
Like thine, my bright visions
Were all overcast—
Like thee, I must bend 'neath
The cold wintry blast.

Thou'rt right, my poor bluebird,
With prospects so bare,
Still, still cling to Hope, nor
Give up to Despair:
In the deepest, the darkest,
Its beams brightest shine—
Without them this heart would
Have broken lang syne.