Classic Poem

Be not afraid, my pretty quail,
Nor flurry off to hide your trail;
I love to hear you sing — " Bob White " —
No need to fly in such a fright;
You 're welcome with your tiny brood
To all the farm and all your food;
Thrice more delight you bring the eye
Than tongue of epicure can buy.
I will not shoot!

Oh, how I love you, little birds!
Singing anthems without words
That flood the woodland where you dwell.
I hear sweet flute-notes, knowing well
Some meadow-lark will flutter by;
I watch with pride, there, in the sky,
The wide-winged hawk in circles go;
And even yonder friendly crow
I would not shoot.

Come, panting fox, come hide you here!
You need not have the slightest fear;
I 'd sooner hurt the howling pack
Thrown by thy cunning off the track.
Prettiest of four-footed things!
A score of dogs the hunter brings
And men a-horse with crimson frocks,
And all to catch a little fox!
I would not shoot!

There, grazing on the mountain high,
In silhouette against the sky,
I see the timid, graceful deer,
Whose chief inheritance is fear.
Let man, who simply hunts to kill
That he may boast about his skill,
Go shoot the targe and eat the ox,
But leave the woods to deer and fox,
If he must shoot!

And thou, grand eagle, art the king
Of all that stride, or stretch the wing!
E'en lordly man thou canst defy:
Thou soarest in the farther sky
Above the storms that earth invade,
Beyond where thunderbolts are made,
The nearest earthly thing to God;
Treads there a man on freedom's sod
Would dare to shoot?

Where is the shaggy buffalo?
Jehovah's herds, where did they go?
His cattle on a thousand hills
No more the selfish hunter kills;
For hides alone were myriads slain!
Of those proud monarchs of the plain,
We save posterity a few
By placing them within a " Zoo, "
Where none dare shoot.

Thou stealthy waddler of the wood,
Go seek some wilder neighborhood,
Or get thee to thy hermitage!
I like thee tamed, or in a cage,
Or stuffed outside the furrier's door,
Or just thy skin spread on the floor!
To trust a bear might be my ruin:
For fear thou hast some mischief brewin ',
I 'll have to shoot.