When Morning dons her sober gray To usher in the coming day, And Phœbus shines with sickly ray On all around, No warblers greet him from the spray With joyous sound. But you, sweet bird, unlike the throng, Salute him with a joyous song. When heavy rains and sleet prolong The dreary day, You chant to him your evening song Upon the spray. No blackbird whistles in the grove, Where late in chorus sweet they strove; No warbler's tongue is heard to move, But all is sad; No cushat woos his amorous love In hazel glade. * * * * * Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. * * * * * _All Rights Reserved._ End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art,, by Various