He sings--but not the song of love--
No,--that is for the quick'ning grove--
The brightly budding tree.
And tho' we listen and rejoice;
In melody that sweet-ton'd voice
Implores our charity.

The birds of passage take their flight
To other lands--of warmth and light--
Where orient breezes blow.
While here the little red-breast stays,
And sweetly warbles out his lays,
Amidst the chilling snow.

When the keen North congeals the stream
That sparkled in the summer-beam--
Chink--chink--the Robin comes.
His near approach proclaims a dearth
Of food upon the ice-bound earth;--
He whistles for our crumbs.

But, like the child of want, he hails
Too oft where avarice prevails--
Devoid of charity;--
Where hearts 'neath rich-clad bosoms glow,
Yet never feel the inspiring throe
Of tender sympathy.

Tho' pleas'd with wildly-warbled song,
The minstrel's life will they prolong