HOW often from my window-seat
I watched a new-born bird,
Who sat upon a neighboring tree,
Singing his spring-time melody,
Till to my heart I would repeat
His song, the sweetest I had ever heard.
But listen to this tale of woe,
Your feelings it will harrow;
A little mucker without shoes,
Who for a cent his soul would lose,
To mischief bending, bent his bow
And stopped the pretty warbling with an arrow.
Now read the mournful simile,
And many tear-drops shed;
With Love's most fascinating dart
Cupid, that imp, has pierced my heart;
His wound is worse than death can be, -
My birdlike (?) singing is forever dead!