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POEMS.
BIRDS.
If ever I see,
On bush or tree,
Young birds in a pretty nest,
I must not, in my play,
Steal the birds away,
To grieve their mother's breast.
My mother I know,
Would sorrow so,
Should I be stolen away—
So I 'll speak to the birds,
In my softest words,
Nor hurt them in my play.
