Classic Poem

OR

Poor pug's ghost;

To the tune of " The Children in the Wood. "

Mourn not for me, my mistress dear,
Nor heave the piteous sigh,
Repress the unavailing tear
That twinkles in thine eye;

Behold the Bird , on maple-spray,
A Red-breast, trim, to view;
Hark, how he trills the warbled lay!
And waves his plumes — at you!

Will Robins — thus essay to sing?
Meer Robins — of the grove!
Will they extend the quivering wing —
Expressive of their love?

Will they implore the steadfast sight,
And woo thee to attend?
When, all around the dews of night
From weeping twigs descend?

No, — 'tis your Squirrel's voice you hear;
He marks your evening-walk,
And often turns his listening ear —
Attentive to your talk,

And, often swells his quavering song,
As, 'neath the bank you stray;
In descant sweet, and clear, and strong,
All from the maple-spray.