TURDUS MUSICUS. 259 



Or, as Cowley quaintly puts it — 



" If we could open and intend our eye, 

 We all, like Moses, would espy, 

 E'en in a bush the radiant Deity.' 



And a dear soul-inspiring hymn to God and good is the 

 sweet wild song of the mavis, from an old ash tree by the side 

 of a dusty road, heard when wandering by a lonely burnside. 

 For, after all, a contented mind, good health, and well-balanced 

 judgment, are the best and truest friends we have. As the 

 body, simply free from pain, and the mind from perturbation, 

 is the sum total of human happiness, let exciting pleasure- 

 hunters say what they may. For, as we see the little throat of 

 the mavis swelling with love as he proudly sits on the highest 

 branch of an old tree, feeling himself the king of Scotland's 

 songsters — not brooking rivalry — we cannot help feeling our 

 spirits stealing up beside him in a purer atmosphere of thought, 

 for 



" The thrush's song 

 Is varied as his plumes, and, as his plumes 

 Blend beauteous each with each, so runs his notes 

 Smoothly, with many a happy rise and fall ; 

 How prettily upon his parded breast 

 The vividly contrasting tints unite 

 To please the admiring eye ; so loud and soft, 

 And high and low, all in his notes combine 

 In alteration sweet to charm the ear." 



And as a poet's proof that he sings early in the year, Burns, in 

 his " Sonnet on hearing a thrush sing in a morning's walk on 

 his birthday, January 25 th," says — 



" Sine/ on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bovf/h. 

 Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 

 See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

 At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow." 



Wordsworth also says — 



" Along the river's stony marge 



The sand-lark chants a joyous song, 

 The thrush is busy in the wood, 

 And carols loud and strong." 



And yet our lovely Scottish nightingale is kept out of the 

 list of the " Wild Birds Protection Act " by a British Parlia- 

 ment ! Shame fa' the shade of St Stephen's on our heartless 

 M.P.'s, who would not protect the " mellow thrush " when 

 " hailing the setting sun, sweet in the green thorn bush." I 

 need not describe the colours of the bonnie speckled mavis, for 

 it- is seen in every garden, not only about St Andrews, but 

 about every town and village in Britain. When pressed for 



