THE BULLFINCH 



This is a bird that uuderstauds 

 Full well the art of dining; 

 Stout beak lias he, and knowing eye, 

 So brown niul bright and shining. 



When, dinner done, he cleans his beak 

 (Stained by some spicy berry) 

 On bark of some o'ersheltering tree. 

 How bright those eyes and merry! 



Plump, clad in black and red, he has 



An air of cogitation. 

 Like some fat prelate after lunch 



Absorbed in meditation. 



Soft is his song, as if he were — 

 (Am I the bird maligning?) 



— Were dreaming ot his favourite art; 

 I mean, the art of dining. 



