  The bird in the corn Is a marvellous crow. He was laid and was born In the season of snow; And he chants his old catches Like a ghost under hatches. He comes from the shades Of his wood very early, And works in the blades Of the wheat and the barley, And he’s happy, although He’s a grumbleton crow. The larks have devices For sunny delight, And the sheep in their fleeces Are woolly and white; But these things are the scorn Of the bird in the corn. And morning goes by, And still he is there, Till a rose in the sky Calls him back to his lair In the boughs where the gloom Is a part of his plume. But the boy in the lane With his gun, by and by, To the heart of the grain Will narrowly spy, And the twilight will come, And no crow will fly home. |
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