Classic Poem

A MID the dry leaves by our door,
Cock-robin comes, and sings once more.
Sweet, although pensive; and I lend
Rapt audience to my red-breast friend,
And greet thee with another lay,
Now whistling 'mid the wither'd spray;
Though I have given thee other rhymes,
And sang of thee so many times.

'Tis kind of thee, I'm sure, to call,
Just when the leaves begin to fall;
And chirp away, as thou dost now,
Beside the shining naked bough,
Reminding me of days gone by,
When on my heathy hill-top high,
Cock-robin sang, so merry he,
On our old stunted elder-tree.

My little boys are with me here,
And they list to thee, birdie dear;
At thee they would not dare to fling,
Nor stone, nor stick, nor anything.
They love no bird like robin red,
Who sings when other birds are fled;
Come in, come in, thou need'st not wait,
And eat from off my children's plate.

Thy strain brings brightly on my sight
My early home upon the height,
When, on the barn-door's wooden latch,
The redbreast sang beneath the thatch;
Or whistled by the oaten sheaves,
As fell the first decaying leaves;
Or caroll'd near the snow-drift high,
When tempests rode along the sky.

O how I loved, 'mid winter's roar,
To see thy red feet by our door;
And mark thee hopping, hopping round,
To pick the crumbs up from the ground,
Scatter'd in love's own happy sphere,
To feed my little birdie dear!
Still thank I thee for bliss bestow'd,
Now sliding down life's rugged road.

O, birdie, birdie, whistling now,
My little household bard art thou;
Sing, sing away: thy notes shall cheer
My gentle wife and darlings dear.
If food or shelter thou shouldst need,
Our home is thine, come here, and feed;
And all I ask is, robin red,
Sing o'er my grave when I am dead!