The Mocking-bird


The New World boasts the Mocking-bird

And whether caged or free,

His wondrous voice pours forth in songs

Of rarest melody.



His notes swell out and die away,

As if a joyous soul

Were wrought to highest ecstacy,

All music to control.







His native notes are bold and full,

And then he'll imitate,

Till it would seem the feathered tribe

Were all arrayed in state.



He'll whistle for the dog or cat,

Will squeak like chicken, hurt,

And cluck and crow and bark and mew,

So comical and curt.



While blue-birds warble, swallows scream,

Or hens will cackle clear.

In robin's song, the whip-poor-will

Pours forth his plaint so near.







Canaries, hang-birds, nightingales,

He echoes loud and long;

While they stand silent, mortified,

He triumphs in his song.



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