
ge THE NATURAL HISTORY, & 
Was it for this my watchful eyes grew dim ? 
The crimfon rofes on my cheek turn pale ? 
Pale is my golden plumage, once fo trim 5, 
And all my wonted {pirits.*gin to fail. 
0 plund’rer vile ; O more than Weerel fell 
More treach’rous than the Cat with prudith face; 
More fierce than Kites with whom the furies dwell, 
More pilf*ring than the Cuckow’s prowling races 
For thee may plum or goofb’ry never grow, 
Nor juicy currant cool thy clammy throat’: 
But bloody birch-twigs work thee fhameful woe; 
Nor ever Gold-finch cheer thee with her note !’ 
Thus fang the mournful bird her piteous tale, 4 
, _ The piteous tale her- mournful mate return’d ; ‘ 
Ed ‘Then fide by fide they fought the diflant vale, ‘ | 
a _ And there in filent fadnefs inly mourn’d.. a 
| ; Dingle 

