THE PARTRIDGE 



LIST the booming from afar, 

 Soft as hum of roving bee, 



Vague as when on distant bar 

 Fall the cataracts of the sea. 



Yet again, a sound astray, 



Was it the humming of the mill? 

 Was it cannon leagues away ? 



Or dynamite beyond the hill ? 



'T is the grouse with kindled soul, 

 Wistful of his mate and nest, 



Sounding forth his vernal roll 

 On his love-enkindled breast. 



List his fervid morning drum, 

 List his summons soft and deep, 



Calling Spice-bush till she come, 

 Waking Bloodroot from her sleep. 



Ah ! ruffled drummer, let thy wing 

 Beat a march the days will heed ; 

 Wake and spur the tardy spring, 

 Till minstrel voices jocund ring, 

 And spring is spring in very deed. 



