GRAHAME.

HE little woodland dwarf, the tiny Wren,
That from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear.
Of stature most diminutive herself,

Not so her wondrous house; for, strange to
tell!

Her's is the largest structure that is formed
By tuneful bill and breast. 'Neath some old root,
From which the sloping soil, by wintry rains,
Has been all worn away, she fixes up
Her curious dwelling, close, and vaulted o'er,
And in the side a little gateway porch,

In which (for I have seen) she'll sit and pipe
A merry stave of her shrill roundelay.
Nor always does a single gate suffice
For exit, and for entrance to her dome;

For when (as sometimes haps) within a bush
She builds the artful fabric, then each side
Has its own portico. But, mark within!
How skilfully the finest plumes and downs
Are softly warped; how closely all around
The outer layers of moss! each circumstance
Most artfully contrived to favour warmth !

I think 'twas Solomon who said so,

And in the bible having read so,
You find that his ubiquity

Extends itself far up into antiquity.

Yes, through all countries and all ages
While other birds have sung in woods or cages,
This noisy, impudent and shameless varlet
Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet,
Would have the highest place without the asking.
Upon your roof the lazy scamp is basking-
Chirping, scuffling, screaming, fighting,

Flying and fluttering up and down
From peep of day to evening brown.

You may be sleeping, sick, or writing,

And needing silence-there's the Sparrow,
Just at your window-and enough to harrow

The soul of Job in its severest season.
There, as it seemeth, for no other reason
But to confound you,-he has got

Up in the leaden gutter burning hot :
Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan,
Loons of all ages,-grandsire, boy and man,
Old beldame Sparrow, wenches bold,

All met to wrangle, raffle, rant and scold.

Send out your man! shoot! blow to powder

The villanous company, that fiercer, louder,

Drive you distracted. There! bang! goes the gun, And all the little lads are on the run

To see the slaughter;-not a bird is slain

There were some feathers flew—a leg was broke,

But all went off as if it were a joke—

In comes your man-and there they are again!

But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more
Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door!
They love your cherry-tree-your rows of peas,
Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease!
You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woods-
No-he's not fond of hungry solitudes.
He better loves the meanest hamlet-where
Aught's to be had, the Sparrow will be there,
Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share.
The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings
In running brooks and purest forest-springs.
The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dust-
That is his washing, or his proper rust.

Before your carriage as you drive to town, To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; He knows the safety-distance to an inch,

Up to that point he will not move or flinch;—

You think your horse will crush him—no such thing— That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing,

Or take his head off in a twink-but he

Knows better still, and liveth blithe and free.

At home he plagues the martins with his noiseThey build, he takes possession and enjoys;

Or if he want it not, he takes it still,

Just because teasing others is his will.
From hour to hour, from tedious day to day
He sits to drive the rightful one away.

At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard
Still is the Sparrow just the self-same bird;
Thievish and clamorous, hardy, bold and base,
Unlike all others of the feathered race.
The bully of his tribe-to all beyond
The gipsy, beggar, knave, and vagabond!

MONTGOMERY.

PARROW, the gun is levell'd, quit that

wall.

-Without the will of Heaven, I cannot

fall.