Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow! Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle, and wheel about,-- With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!-- Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover! Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow me!" Many persons, I presume, have admired Wordsworth's poem on the cuckoo, without recognizing its truthfulness, or how thoroughly, in the main, the description applies to our own species. If the poem had been written in New England or New York, it could not have suited our case better:-- "O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? "While I am lying on the grass, Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. "Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. "Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; "The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. "To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. "And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. "O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for thee!" Logan's stanzas, "To the Cuckoo," have less merit both as poetry and natural history, but they are older, and doubtless the latter poet benefited by them. Burke admired them so much that, while on a visit to Edinburgh, he sought the author out to compliment him:-- "Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. "What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? . . . . . . . . "The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. . . . . . . . .