The Blackbird

And one calls for a little page; he strings
Her lute beside her-while the Blackbird sings.

A little while-and lo! the charm is heard,

A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear-while the Blackbird sings.

1525

The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher,
And dizzy things of eve begin to float
Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire;
Half way to sunset with a drowsy note
The ancient clock from out the valley swings;
The Grandam nods-and still the Blackbird sings.

Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal,
Where the great stack is piling in the sun;
Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel,
And barking curs into the tumult run;
While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings
The merry tempest-and the Blackbird sings.

On the high wold the last look of the sun

Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream;
The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun;
The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream;
Only a hammer on an anvil rings;

The day is dying-still the Blackbird sings.

Now the good Vicar passes from his gate

Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye
Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate,
And felt the wings of immortality;

His heart is thronged with great imaginings,
And tender mercies-while the Blackbird sings.

Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through
A lowly wicket; and at last he stands

Awful beside the bed of one who grew

From boyhood with him-who, with lifted hands

And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings,
And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.

Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest,
Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun;
His sinking hands seem pointing to the West;

He smiles as though he said "Thy will be done": His eyes, they see not those illuminings;

His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898]

THE BLACKBIRD

WHEN smoke stood up from Ludlow

And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,

The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise."

I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.

Then my soul within me

Took up the blackbird's strain,

And still beside the horses

Along the dewy lane
It sang the song again:

The Blackbird

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;

The sun moves always west;

The road one treads to labor

Will lead one home to rest,

And that will be the best."

Alfred Edward Housman [1859

1527

THE BLACKBIRD

THE nightingale has a lyre of gold;

The lark's is a clarion call,

And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute,

But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,

We too have listened till he sang

Our hearts and lips together.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

THE BLACKBIRD

Ov all the birds upon the wing
Between the zunny showers o' spring,-
Vor all the lark, a-swingèn high,
Mid zing below a cloudless sky,

An' sparrows, clust'rèn roun' the bough,
Mid chatter to the men at plough,—
The blackbird, whisslèn in among
The boughs, do zing the gayest zong.

Vor we do hear the blackbird zing
His sweetest ditties in the spring,
When nippèn win's noo mwore do blow
Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow,
But dreve light doust along between
The leäne-zide hedges, thick an' green;
An' zoo the blackbird in among
The boughs do zing the gaÿest zong.

'Tis blithe, wi' newly-opened eyes,
To zee the mornèn's ruddy skies;
Or, out a-haulèn frith or lops

Vrom new-plēshed hedge or new-velled copse,
To rest at noon in primrwose beds

Below the white-barked woak-trees' heads;
But there's noo time, the whole day long,
Lik' evenen wi' the blackbird's zong.

Vor when my work is all a-done
Avore the zettèn o' the zun,
Then blushèn Jeäne do walk along
The hedge to meet me in the drong,
An' stay till all is dim an' dark
Bezides the ashen tree's white bark;
An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill
An' runnèn evenèn-whissle's still.

An' there in bwoyhood I did rove
Wi' pryèn eyes along the drove
To vind the nest the blackbird meäde
O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheäde;
Or climb aloft, wi' clingèn knees,

Vor crows' aggs up in swayèn trees,
While frightened blackbirds down below
Did chatter o' their little foe.

An' zoo there's noo pleäce lik' the drong,
Where I do hear the blackbird's zong.

William Barnes [1821-1886]

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln

1529

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!

There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,

Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.