64 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Nor would he quit that chosen stand, 
Till I, with slow and cautious hand, 
Returned him to his own. 
And again, where he condemns the unpardonable 
cruelty of first confining, and then neglecting, these 
interesting little creatures — 
Time was, when I was free as air. 
The thistle's downy seed my fare. 
My drink the morning dew. 
I perch 'd at will on evVy spray, 
My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
My strains for ever new. 
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
And form genteel, were all in vain, 
And of a transient date ; 
For, caught and cag'd, and starv'd to death, 
In dying sighs my little breath 
Soon passed the wiry grate. 
Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes. 
And thanks for this effectual close. 
And cure of ev'ry ill ! 
