The Bird Of Paradise

Here comes Kate Summers, who, for gold,
Takes any man to bed:
"You knew my friend, Nell Barnes," she said;
"You knew Nell Barnes - she's dead.

"Nell Barnes was bad on all you men,
Unclean, a thief as well;
Yet all my life I have not found
A better friend than Nell.

"So I sat at her side at last,
For hours, till she was dead;
And yet she had no sense at all
Of any word I said.

"For all her cry but came to this -
'Not for the world! Take care:
Don't touch that bird of paradise,
Perched on the bed-post there!'

"I asked her would she like some grapes,
Some damsons ripe and sweet;
A custard made with new-laid eggs,
Or tender fowl to eat.

"I promised I would follow her,
To see her in her grave;
And buy a wreath with borrowed pence,
If nothing I could save.

"Yet still her cry but came to this -
'Not for the world! Take care:
Don't touch that bird of paradise,
Perched on the bed-post there!'"

William Henry Davies

William Henry Davies was a Welsh poet and writer, best known for his poetry depicting tramp life and the natural world. Davies spent much of his life as a wanderer in the UK and the USA. Despite his lifestyle, he became one of the most popular poets of his time, with works including 'Leisure', which begins with the famous lines, 'What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?'. His autobiography, 'The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp', details his adventures and is considered a classic.

William Henry Davies

Night Wanderers

William Henry Davies, Simple Poetry

The Truth

William Henry Davies, Simple Poetry

Cowslips And Larks

William Henry Davies, Simple Poetry

Life Is Jolly

William Henry Davies, Simple Poetry

English

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Birds

When our two souls have left this mortal clay
And, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost -
Look for me first in that Elysian glade
Where Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.

What happy hearts those feathered mortals have,
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The Contrast - The Parrot And The Wren

I

Within her gilded cage confined,
I saw a dazzling Belle,
A Parrot of that famous kind
Whose name is Non-Pareil.

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes;
And, smoothed by Nature's skill,
With pearl or gleaming agate vies
Her finely-curved bill.

Her plumy mantle's living hues
In mass opposed to mass,
Outshine the splendour that imbues
The robes of pictured glass.

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate
Did never tempt the choice
Of feathered Thing most delicate
In figure and in voice.

But, exiled from Australian bowers,
And singleness her lot,
She trills her song with tutored powers,
Or mocks each casual note.

No more of pity for regrets
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The Redbreast - Suggested In A Westmoreland Cottage

Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air
From half-stripped woods and pastures bare,
Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:
Not like a beggar is he come,
But enters as a looked-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,
As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.
But pensive fancies putting by,
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
He plays the expert ventriloquist;
And, caught by glimpses now, now missed,
Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without!
Was ever such a sweet confusion,
Sustained by delicate illusion?
He's at your elbow, to your feeling
The notes are from the floor or ceiling;
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The Bonny Birdy

Text.--From the Jamieson-Brown MS. Jamieson, in printing this ballad, enlarged and rewrote much of it, making the burden part of the dialogue throughout.

The Story is much the same as that of Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard; but the ballad as a whole is worthy of comparison with the longer English ballad for the sake of its lyrical setting.


THE BONNY BIRDY

    1.
    There was a knight, in a summer's night,
        Was riding o'er the lee, (diddle)
    An' there he saw a bonny birdy,
        Was singing upon a tree. (diddle)

            O wow for day! (diddle)
            An' dear gin it were day! (diddle)
            Gin it were day, an' gin I were away,
            For I ha' na lang time to stay. (diddle)
...

Frank Sidgwick

The Birds Nest. A Tale.[1]

In Scotlands realms, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found;


For husband there and wife may boast
There union undefiled,
And false ones are as rare almost
As hedgerows in the wild


In Scotlands realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late
The history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.


The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct filld;
They paird, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.


The heaths uncoverd and the moors
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.


Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Til...

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Elegy, (Written At The Request Of A Young Lady.) Sylvia On Her Dead Canary-Bird

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower,
Where oft I've listened to thy lay,
Forgetting care, while many an hour
In music sweetly stole away;

There will I bid thy relics rest;
Then sadly sigh my last farewell;
But long, oh! long within my breast
Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.

Still to that spot, now more endear'd,
Shall thy fond mistress oft return,
And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd,
To deck with verse thy simple urn.

'Here lies a bird, once famed to be
Peerless in plumage and in lay;
This was the soul of melody,
And that the golden blush of day.'

'Soon as the Morn began...

Thomas Oldham