/ THE SONG OF THE BOBOLINK 



/ 



When the clover field is crimson and the daisies, like the snow, 



O'er the pasture weave their mantle, pure and white; 

 When the fragrant apple blossoms to the breeze their perfume 

 throw, 

 And the heart of nature's throbbing with delight ; 

 Then the bobolink, returning from his warmer southern home. 



Comes again to meet the friends who've missed him long; 

 Comes again to spread his pinions 'neath the northern azure dome, 

 Comes again to greet us with his matchless song: 

 Bobolincon, bobolincon, ling, lang, ling; 

 Bobolincon, bobolincon, cling, clang, cling; 

 Oh, listen to his singing, to the jubilating ringing 



Of the melody he's flinging to the breezes, on the wing! 



Now he rises o'er the meadow in his wanton spiral flight, 



Now he pauses, all a-flutter, in mid air; 

 Now he swings upon a swaying plume of meadow queen, alight, 



With his wings outspread to keep him balanced there. 

 And anon he sounds a keynote, soft and lute-like is its tone. 



Low and liquid like aeolian harmony ; 

 Now again he rises upward with a choral all his own, 

 With an outburst of exultant melody: 

 Bobolincon, bobolincon, ling, lang, ling; 

 Bobolincon, bobolincon, cling, clang, cling; 

 Oh, listen to his singing, to the jubilating ringing 

 X Of the melody he's flinging to the breezes, on the wing! 



[8] 



