Classic Poem

The Gipsy-bird sits on the oak-branch high,
And talks to his mate on the hedge hard by;
He's singing loudly, he's singing well—
Hear what the Gipsy-bird has to tell.

His mate says, “What is the matter, dear,
That you sing so loud, that you sing so clear?”
“I sing, because under this very bough,
A beautiful lady is resting now.

“She's all by herself, no mate has she,
No bird in the wood so poor can be;
Her heart is heavy with grief, I know,
For I am watching her tears that flow.

“But listen, a mile from here I see
A youth sits under another tree;
He'd give the half of his gold and land
To win such a beautiful lady's hand.”

“Little wife, it were a good deed, in truth,
To bring them together, the maid and youth;
And of the two to make but one!”
“Pleasant to do, if it could be done.”

“Look down, little wife; on the grass below
Is the lady's handkerchief white as snow:
I'll hasten to steal it, and on my track
She'll surely follow, to get it back.

“And I'll lead her on over brier and fern;
I'll never stop and I'll never turn,
Nor let her linger through all the chase,
Till she and the youth shall be face to face.

“Then never again will she weep alone,
For he'll woo her softly to be his own,
And she'll answer him back with a softer word,
But they never will know it was done by the bird.”