  The meadowlark wingeth his grassy way, His plaintive note rings clear, He seeketh shelter ’neath the new-mown hay His flute-like voice we hear “Spring o’ the year! Spring o’ the year!” His coat, brown-mottled, with silver’s soft streak, While nesting, serves him well, When summer’s sun sears the grass, dries the creek, ’Tis then he rests a spell. In meadow-dell! In meadow-dell! This jaunty fellow in vest of yellow And crescent-collar black, A cap to match; his music how mellow, Chap with the whistling knack. “Tseer”—alack! “Tseer”—alack! A ground nest by him of grasses is made, Distant his dream of fear, Till the spotted white eggs his mate has laid, Begin to disappear. “Tsev—tseer!” “Tsev—tseer!” The thieves of sad fate are mice of the mead, Or else some reptile rare, Again he builds stronger, with greater heed, Then guards his home with care. “Tseer” dire deed! “Tseer” dire deed! ’Tis golden sheaf-time and each spotted shell, Appears to be pipping, Alas! the tale of the binder to tell, She come clipping, clipping. Thru meadow-dell! Thru meadow-dell! The doom of the sputtering mates is sealed, The reaper spurns his guest, As he cuts a swath of the ripened field, Brings havoc to the nest. “Tseer” oprest! “Tseer” oprest! Still sputtering, the mates fly far a-field, Such grief was theirs that day, And here is to hoping their fate may be sealed, Next year a diff’rent way. “Tseer” sad lay! “Tseer” sad lay! |
|
