Aubery

Tush, man! the event I could have prophesied. Last night, on guard, A little bird came flirting in my ears, Like that thou bearest now. Bethought me, then, The soul of man will enter into birds; And it were heaven to the poor wretch who pines His better part of life in the damp Keep Half rotten above earth; yes! it were heaven To leave his chains behind, and fly away, And mingle with the mountain breeze, and be A thing of liberty. I often wish I were a tuneful linnet, that might fly Unknown, to nestle on the shady Pease, And serenade my Flora when she goes To milk the kye on those romantic banks.