Classic Poem

From twig to twig a-skipping, —
Through bush and brake a-slipping,
To rest in some soft grassy spot, —
Ah! that 's the lot
Of your little feathered singer.
Long linger,
Thou sweetest, loveliest lot!

Mild breezes, softly springing,
O, come! flower-flagrance bringing;
Ye pretty butterflies, be quick,
From twig to twig,
With our little troop, to be straying
And playing,
Where bushes are cool and thick.

In the green labyrinth's mazes,
Where never noontide blazes,
We build our dwelling snug and strong;
Gliding along,
The rivulet loiters near us,
To hear us,
And murmurs to our song.

And when the day is ending,
Then you may see us wending
Back to our mother's straw-built cot.
Ah! that 's the lot
Of your little painted singer;
Long linger, —
The longer, the lovelier, — thou sweetest, loveliest lot!