THE NIGHTINGALE

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Every thing did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
—Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

— R. Barnefield

“HOW IS THE WEATHER?”

Cold winter has come,
And the cruel winds blow—
The trees are all leafless and brown;
These two pretty robins,
Oh, where shall they go
To shelter their little brown heads from the snow?
Just look at the flakes coming down.

But see, they have found a snug shelter at last,
And hark, how they talk, while the storm whistles past:

Says Polly to Dicky,
“You’re nearest the door,
And you are the gentleman, too:
Just peep out and see
When the storm will be o’er;
Be-cause, if the weather’s as bad as before,
I think we will stay, do not you?”

–Anonymous