244 Wild Birds and their Haunts 



The lord of the acres may boast his stock, 



The well-fed tribe of his pheasant flock ; 



But can he whistle or can he bring 



At his call the bird of the brown, bent wing ? 



He knoweth little of keeper's care ; 



His home is the moorland, bleak and bare, 



And the sheltered glen where the holly tree 



Just kisses the wild brook lovingly. 



Where the moss-clad rocks rise round the spring, 



Veiled by the ferns thick clustering, 



With a small, bright peep of the sky o'erhead — 



There was my wild bird born and bred, 



A round little lump of dusky down. 



That will change at last to these feathers brown, 



When he flies to his haunt by the holly tree 



And the brook that ripples unceasingly. 



The winds of winter fiercely blow ; 



He findeth shelter enough below ; 



The briars tangled, yellow and red, 



The tall trees swaying overhead. 



But the end must come, though all seems fair. 



A sharp crack rings through the frosty air, 



And, with dulling eye by the holly tree, 



He lies, once king of that woodland free. 



