Birds and Poets : with Other Papers. John Burroughs

he has degenerated into a game-bird that is slaughtered by tens of thousands in the marshes. I think the prospects now are of his gradual extermination, as gunners and sportsmen are clearly on the increase, while the limit of the bird's productivity in the North has no doubt been reached long ago. There are no more meadows to be added to his domain there, while he is being waylaid and cut off more and more on his return to the South. It is gourmand eat gourmand, until in half a century more I expect the blithest and merriest of our meadow songsters will have disappeared before the rapacity of human throats.

      But the poets have had a shot at him in good time, and have preserved some of his traits. Bryant's poem on this subject does not compare with his lines "To a Water-Fowl,"—a subject so well suited to the peculiar, simple, and deliberate motion of his mind; at the same time it is fit that the poet who sings of "The Planting of the Apple-Tree" should render into words the song of "Robert of Lincoln." I subjoin a few stanzas:—

       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 is gayly drest,

       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.

      But it has been reserved for a practical ornithologist, Mr. Wilson Flagg, to write by far the best poem on the bobolink that I have yet seen. It is much more in the mood and spirit of the actual song than Bryant's poem:—

       THE O'LINCOLN FAMILY

       A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove;

       Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love:

       There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,—

       A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle,—

       Crying, "Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bobolincon,

       Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups!

       I know the saucy chap, I see his shining cap

       Bobbing in the clover there—see, see, see!"

       Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree,

       Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery.

       Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air,

       And merrily he turns about, and warns him to beware!

       "'T is you that would a-wooing go, down among the rushes O!

       But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,—wait a week,and,

       ere you marry,

       Be sure of a house wherein to tarry!

       Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!"

       Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow;

       Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow!

       Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly;

       They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle,

       and wheel about,—

       With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!—

       Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing,

       That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover!

       Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow me!"

      Many persons, I presume, have admired Wordsworth's poem on the cuckoo, without recognizing its truthfulness, or how thoroughly, in the main, the description applies to our own species. If the poem had been written in New England or New York, it could not have suited our case better:—

      "O blithe New-comer! I have heard,

       I hear thee and rejoice,

       O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

       Or but a wandering Voice?

       "While I am lying on the grass,

       Thy twofold shout I hear,

       From hill to hill it seems to pass,

       At once far off, and near.

       "Though babbling only to the Vale,

       Of sunshine and of flowers,

       Thou bringest unto me a tale

       Of visionary hours.

       "Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

       Even yet thou art to me

       No bird, but an invisible thing,

       A voice, a mystery;

       "The same whom in my schoolboy days

       I listened to; that Cry

       Which made me look a thousand ways

       In bush, and tree, and sky.

       "To seek thee did I often rove

       Through woods and on the green;

       And thou wert still a hope, a love;

       Still longed for, never seen.

       "And I can listen to thee yet;

       Can lie upon the plain

       And listen, till I do beget

       That golden time again.

       "O blesséd Bird! the earth we pace

       Again appears to be

       An unsubstantial, faery place;

       That is fit home for thee!"

      Logan's stanzas, "To the Cuckoo," have less merit both as poetry and natural history, but they are older, and doubtless the latter poet benefited by them. Burke admired them so much that, while on a visit to Edinburgh, he sought the author out to compliment him:—

      "Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!

       Thou messenger of spring!

       Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,

       And woods thy welcome sing.

       "What time the daisy decks the green,

       Thy certain voice we hear;

       Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

       Or mark the rolling year?

       . . . . . . . .

       "The schoolboy, wandering through the wood

       To pull the primrose gay,

       Starts, the new voice of spring