Classic Poem

There is a sort of feathered scold
Whose note is (if the truth be told)
Much like a vixen's clack,
Morn, noon, and night the sound you hear,
Still ringing in your deafened ear,
“Come back! Come back! Come back!”

When forced to leave a pleasant home,
Upon the world's wide waste to roam,
Our sinking hearts alack!
Feel all their devils doubly blue,
If some of this discordant crew
Cry out, “Come back! Come back!”

But if with travel, toil and pain
Worn out, we're hastening home again,
Our fancy has a knack …
Of making even discord sweet,
Which seems our own return to greet,
With Wel—“come back, come back!”

My song, much like the throat it mocks,
As shrill as winds and hard as rocks,
(Since rhyme is growing slack)
As it began perforce must end
By crying out with every friend
“Come back! come back! come back!”