  Where I can see him all day long And hear his wild, spontaneous song, Before my window in his cage, A blithe canary sits and swings, And circles round on golden wings; And startles all the vicinage When from his china tankard He takes a dainty drink To clear his throat For as sweet a note As ever yet was caroled By lark or bobolink. Sometimes he drops his pretty head And seems to be dispirited, And then his little mistress says: "Poor Dickie misses his chickweed, Or else I've fed him musty seed As stale as last year's oranges!" But all the time I wonder If we half comprehend In sweet song-words The thought of birds, Or why so oft their raptures In sudden silence end. Within the "blue Canary isles," As exiles from their native home, For in a foreign domicile They first essayed their gamut-trill Beneath a cage's gilded dome; But maybe some sad throbbing Betimes their spirits stirs, Who love as we Dear liberty, That they, admired and petted, Are only—prisoners. |
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