Oh! had I Philomela's tongue, The thrush's note, or warbling song Of blackbird, lark, or linnet; I'd then more gratitude display, Striving to raise a sweeter lay, I'd sing the fleeting hours away, Nor silent be a minute. But I must quit the trembling spray, And to my duty fly away, To pick a straw or feather; My mate is somewhere on the wing, I think she's gone some moss to bring, For we must work while it is spring, And build our nest together. So now adieu--I've chirp'd too long, Must leave the finish of my song To some more learned bird's son; Whose mellow notes can charm the ear With no discordant chatter near; So now, dear Sir, I'm your sincere And humble Sparrow. HERDSON. [2] You will perceive the writer is a _hedge-sparrow_. * * * * * TO A DESTRUCTIVE INSECT ON A ROSEBUD. IN MANNER OF BURNS. (_For the Mirror._) Ye imp o' death, how durst ye dwell Within this pure and hallow'd cell, Thy purposes I ken fu' well Are to destroy, And wi' a mortal breathing spell, To blast each joy! Yet why upo' so sma' a flower, Dost thou exert thy deadly pow'r, And nip fair beauty's natal hour, Wi' thy vile breath, It is when wint'ry storms do low'r, We look for death. But thou, thou evil one, hast come, To bring this wee rose to its doom, Not i' time of woe and gloom, But i' the spring, When flowerets just begin to bloom. And birds to sing. O fie, begone fra out my sight, Nor dare attempt such joy to blight, Thou evil wicked-doing doit, Then hie away, Seek not the _morning_, but the _night_ To crush thy prey! J. F. C. * * * * * THE CONTEMPORARY TRAVELLER. * * * * * JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF THE RED INDIANS OF NEWFOUNDLAND. (_Concluded from page 136._)