Classic Poem

The mounting lark, day's herald, got on wing,
Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.
The lofty treble sung the little wren;
Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;
The nightingale the tenor; and the thrush
The counter-tenor, sweetly in a bush:
And that the music might be full in parts,
Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts:
But, as it seemed, they thought (as do the swains
Which tune their pipes on sacked Hibernia's plains)
There should some droning part be, therefore willed
Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field,
In embassy unto the King of Bees,
To aid his partners on the flowers and trees;
Who, condescending, gladly flew along
To bear the base to his well-tunid song.
The crow was willing they should be beholding
For his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding,
He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb,
And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.
O true delight, enharbouring the breasts
Of those sweet creatures with the plumy crests.
Had nature unto man such simpl'ess given,
He would like birds be far more near to heaven.