PEACOCKS

Peacocks sweep the fairies' rooms;
They use their folded tails for brooms;
But fairy dust is brighter far
Than any mortal colours are,
And all about their tails it clings
In strange designs of rounds and rings:
And that is why they strut about
And proudly spread their feathers out.

THE CUCKOO

The Cuckoo is a tell-tale,
A mischief-making bird;
He flies to East, he flies to West
And whispers into every nest
The wicked things he's heard;
He loves to spread his naughty lies,
He laughs about it as he flies:
"Cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo,
It's true, it's true."

And when the fairies catch him
His busy wings they dock,
They shut him up for evermore
(He may not go beyond the door)
Inside a wooden clock;
Inside a wooden clock he cowers
And has to tell the proper hours—
"Cuckoo," he cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo,
It's true, it's true."

THE ROOKS

High in the elm-trees sit the rooks,
Or flit about with busy looks
And solemn, ceaseless caws.
Small wonder they are so intent,
They are the fairies' Parliament—
They make the fairy laws.

They never seem to stop all day,
And you can hear from far away
Their busy chatter-chat.
They work so very hard indeed
You'd wonder that the fairies need
So many laws as that.

THE ROBIN

The robin is the fairies' page;
They keep him neatly dressed
For country service or for town
In dapper livery of brown
And little scarlet vest.

On busy errands all day long
He hurries to and fro
With watchful eyes and nimble wings—
There are not very many things
The robin doesn't know.

And he can tell you, if he will,
The latest fairy news:
The quaint adventures of the King,
And whom the Queen is visiting,
And where she gets her shoes.

And lately, when the fairy Court
Invited me to tea,
He stood behind the Royal Chair;
And here I solemnly declare,
When he discovered I was there.
That robin winked at me.

THE COCK

The kindly cock is the fairies' friend,
He warns them when their revels must end;
He never forgets to give the word,
For the cock is a thoroughly punctual bird.

And since he grieves that he never can fly.
Like all the other birds, up in the sky,
The fairies put him now and again
High on a church for a weather-vane.

Little for sun or for rain he cares;
He turns about with the proudest airs
And chuckles with joy as the clouds go past
To think he is up in the sky at last.

THE GROUSE

The Grouse that lives on the moorland wide
Is filled with a most ridiculous pride;
He thinks that it all belongs to him,
And every one else must obey his whim.
When the queer wee folk who live on the moors
Come joyfully leaping out of their doors
To frisk about on the warm sweet heather
Laughing and chattering all together,
He looks askance at their rollicking play
And calls to them in the angriest way:
"You're a feather-brained, foolish, frivolous pack,
Go back, you rascally imps, go back!"

But little enough they heed his shout,
Over the rocks they tumble about;
They chase each other over the ling;
They kick their heels in the heather and sing:
"Oho, Mr. Grouse, you'd best beware,
Or some fine day, if you don't take care,
The witch who lives in the big brown bog
With a wise old weasel, a rat and a frog,
Will come a-capering over the fell
And put you under a horrible spell;
Your feathers will moult and your voice will crack—
Go back, you silly old bird, go back!"