And through my brain, in consequence, there darts a horrid thought
Of exasperating wheelbarrows, and signs, with torture fraught!
So, all these breezy mornings through my teeth is poured the strain:
_Confound the odious "Robins," that have now come back again!_

They bring a thought of strawberries, which I shall never taste;
Plums, cherries, ditto, ditto, which these maurauders waste--
Who never _will_ catch worms and flies, as smaller "warblers" do,
But want precisely those nice things which grow for me and you!
I muse on all their robberies, and mutter this fierce strain:
_Confound these odious "Robins," that have now come back again!_

Oh, bah! What bosh these "poets" write, about this humbug pet!
Firstly, they're _not_ true "Robins," but a base, inferior set;
Second, there is no music in their creaking, croaking shriek;
Third, they are slow and stupid--common birds from tail to beak!
Tis said, "they come so early." Well, I'd rather they'd come late.
They're simply made for pot-pies, and deserve no better fate.

Who ever thought to welcome the ingenious, sprightly Wren?
With his pretty, joyous carol, which should thrill the heart of men?
Now _that_ is _music_, mind you! And how small the throat that
sings!
Besides, he lets your fruit alone, and lives on other things!
Inspired by this trim fairy, many souls will swell the strain:
_Confound the odious "Robins," that have now come back again!_

* * * * *

CAUTION!