The Jackdaw

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.