When in the hedge that hides the post Thy ruddy bosom he surveys,-- Pleased with thy song, in transport lost, He pausing mutters scraps of praise. The maiden marks, at day’s decline, Thee in the yard, on broken plough, And stops her song, to listen thine, Milking the brindled cow. Thy simple faith in man’s esteem, From every heart hath favour won; Dangers to thee no dangers seem-- Thou seemest to court them more than shun. The clown in winter takes his gun, The barn-door flocking birds to slay, Yet should’st thou in the danger run He turns the tube away. The gipsy boy, who seeks in glee Blackberries for a dainty meal, Laughs loud on first beholding thee, When called, so near his presence steal. He surely thinks thou know’st the call; And though his hunger ill can spare The fruit, he will not pluck it all, But leaves some to thy share. Upon the ditcher’s spade thou’lt hop, For grubs and wreathing worms to search; Where woodmen in the forest chop, Thou’lt fearless on their faggots perch; Nay, by the gipsies’ camp I stop, And mark thee dwell a moment there, To prune thy wing awhile, then drop, The littered crumbs to share. Domestic bird! thy pleasant face Doth well thy common suit commend; To meet thee in a stranger-place Is meeting with an ancient friend. I track the thicket’s glooms around, And there, as loth to leave, again Thou comest, as if thou knew the sound And loved the sight of men. The loneliest wood that man can trace To thee a pleasant dwelling gives; In every town and crowded place The sweet domestic robin lives. Go where one will, in every spot Thy little welcome mates appear; And, like the daisy’s common lot, Thou’rt met with every where. The swallow in the chimney tier, Or twittering martin in the eaves, With half of love and half of fear His mortared dwelling shily weaves; The sparrows in the thatch will shield; Yet they, as well as e’er they can, Contrive with doubtful faith to build Beyond the reach of man. But thou’rt less timid than the wren, Domestic and confiding bird! And spots, the nearest haunts of men, Are oftenest for thy home preferred. In garden-walls thou’lt build so low, Close where the bunch of fennel stands, That e’en a child just taught to go May reach with tiny hands. Sweet favoured bird! thy under-notes In summer’s music grow unknown, The concert from a thousand throats Leaves thee as if to pipe alone; No listening ear the shepherd lends, The simple ploughman marks thee not, And then by all thy autumn friends Thou’rt missing and forgot.