  I am a little finch with wings of gold, I dwell within a cage upon the wall. I cannot fly within my narrow fold,— I eat, and drink, and sing, and that is all. My good old master talks to me sometimes, But if he knows my speech I cannot tell. He is so large he cannot sing nor fly, But he and I are both named Bouverel. I think perhaps he really wants to sing, Because the busy hammer that he wields Goes clinking light as merry bells that ring When morris-dancers frolic in the fields, And this is what the music seems to tell To me, the finch, the feathered Bouverel. “Kling-a-ling—clack! Masters, what do ye lack? Hammer your heart in’t, and strike with a knack! Flackety kling— Biff, batico, bing! Platter, cup, candlestick, necklace or ring! Spare not your labor, lads, make the gold sing,— And some day perhaps ye may work for the King!”
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