I.

Bit of sunshine taken wings,

Or a spray of golden-rod?

On thistle top he sways and swings,

Or flung high to the sun, he sings—

Perdita—Perdita—Perdita—

’Dita,—Sweet, Sweet—.

II.

Good morning trolled, then all the day,

From thicket hidden bramble bush,

This recluse croons his roundelay.

But startle him,—a flash of gray,

And, Hush—Hush—Hush—Hush—

Go ’way,—Go ’way—.

III.

Wild cherry bough and hanging nest,

And calls amid the apple bloom,

No need to tell whose flaming breast

And fluting note lead all the rest,—

Glory—Glory—Glory—Glory—

Glory,—Come-O, Come-O—.

—Mary Hefferan.