THE AMERICAN BLUE-BIRD 



When Winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, 

 Green meadows, and brown furrow'd fields reap- 

 pearing. 



The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, 

 And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steer- 



When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing. 



When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasin' ; 



O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring, 

 And hails with his warblings the charms of the 

 season. 



Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring; 



Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the 

 weather ; 

 The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring. 



And spicewood and sassafras budding together ; 

 O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair! 



Your walks border up ; sow and plant at your leis- 

 ure; 

 The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air. 



That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure. 



He flits thro' the orchard, he visits each tree. 



The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet 

 blossoms ; 

 He snaps up destroyers wherever they be. 



And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms ; 

 He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours. 



The worms from their webs where they riot and 

 welter ; 

 His song and his services freely are ours, 



And all that he asks, is, in summer a shelter. 



