There is a bird who, by his
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to
From what point blows the weather.
Look up -- your brains begin to swim,'Tis in the clouds -- that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely
The bustle and the rareeshow,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says -- what says he? -- Caw.
Thrice happy bird!
I too have
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs
For such a pair of wings as
And such a head between 'em.
From the latin of Vincent Bourne.
