Then, why art thou here, my bird, Away from thy young, helpless brood? "To pay thee with a song, Just to let me pass along, Nor harm me, as I look for their food!" THE BIRD UNCAGED. She opened the cage, and away there flew A bright little bird, as a short adieu It hastily whistled, and passed the door, And felt that its sorrowful hours were o'er. An anthem of freedom it seemed to sing; To utter its joy for an outspread wing,-- That now it could sport in the boundless air, And might go any and every where. And Anna rejoiced in her bird's delight; But her eye was wet, as she marked its flight; Till, this was the song that she seemed to hear; And, merrily warbled, it dried the tear: "I had a mistress, and she was kind, In all, but keeping her bird confined; She ministered food and drink to me, But, O I was pining for liberty! "My fluttering bosom she loved to smooth; While the heart within it, she could not soothe: I sickened and longed for the wildwood breeze, My feathery kindred, and fresh green trees. "A prisoner there, with a useless wing, I looked with sorrow on every thing; I lost my voice, and forgot my song, And mourned in silence, the whole day long. "But I will go back, with a mellower pipe, And sing, when the cherries are round and ripe; On the topmost bough, as I lock my feet, To help myself, in my leafy seat. "My merriest notes shall there be heard, To draw her eye to her franchised bird; The burden, then, of my song shall be, 'Earth for the wingless! but air for me!'" DAME BIDDY. Dame Biddy abode in a coop, Because it so chanced, that dame Biddy Had round her a family group Of chicks, young, and helpless and giddy. And when she had freedom to roam, She fancied the life of a ranger; And led off her brood, far from home, To fall into mischief or danger. She 'd trail through the grass to be mown, And call all her children to follow; And scratch up the seeds that were sown, Then, lie in their places and wallow. She 'd go where the corn in the hill, Its first little blade had been shooting, And try, by the strength of her bill, To learn if the kernel was rooting. And when she went out on a walk Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles, The covetous eye of a hawk Delighted in marking her rambles. "I spy," to himself he would say, "A prize of which I 'll be the winner!" So down would he pounce on his prey, And bear off a chicken for dinner. The poor frighted matron, that heard The cry of her youngling in dying, Would scream at the merciless bird, That high with his booty was flying.