Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she; Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Summer wanes; the children are grown; Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, 748 SONG OF MARION'S MEN Our band is few but true and tried, The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem And hear the tramp of thousands Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads— The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; And lovely ladies greet our band And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, 749 JUNE I Gazed upon the glorious sky A cell within the frozen mould, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat— And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. There through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. 750 And what if cheerful shouts at noon I would the lovely scene around I know that I no more should see Nor would its brightness shine for me, But if, around my place of sleep, Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom These to their softened hearts should bear Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice THE PAST Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. |