Here never could the spearmen pass,
Or forester, unmoved,
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER
* * * * *
THE SNOWBIRD'S SONG
The ground was all covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snowbird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee,
Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.
He had not been singing that tune very long,
Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song:
"Oh, sister, look out of the window," said she;
"Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee.
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
"Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat if he choose;
I wish he'd come into the parlor and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee."
Chick-a-de-dee, etc.
"There is one, my dear child, though I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too.
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