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THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD.
��BLUE-BIRD ! on yon leafless tree, Dost thou carol thus to ine, " Spring is coming ! Spring is here ? ' Say'st thou so, my birdie dear ? What is that, in misty shroud, Stealing from the darken 'd cloud ? Lo ! the snow-flakes' gathering mound Settles o'er the whiten'd ground, Yet thou singest, blithe and clear, " Spring is coining ! Spring is here ! '
Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ? Winds are piping o'er the plain ; Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky With a black and threatening eye ; Urchins, by the frozen rill, Wrap their mantles closer still ; Yon poor man, with doublet old, Doth he shiver at the cold ? Hath he not a nose of blue ? Tell me, birdling, tell me true.
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