The Dead Bird

What we call Sport is too often Cruelty.

Ah! there it falls, and now ’tis dead! The shot went thro’ its pretty head, And broke its shining wing? How dull and dim its closing eyes; How cold, and stiff, and still it lies! Poor harmless little thing!

It was a lark, and in the sky, In mornings fine, it mounted high, To sing a pretty song; Cutting the fresh and healthy air, It whistled out its music there, As light it skimmed along.

How little thought its pretty breast, This morning, when it left its nest Hid in the springing corn, To find some breakfast for its young, And pipe away its morning song, It never should return.

Those pretty wings shall never more Its tender nestlings cover o’er, Or bring them dainties rare: But long with gaping beaks they’ll cry, And then they will with hunger die, All in the open air!

Poor little bird! If people knew The sorrows little birds go through, I think that even boys Would never call it sport and fun To stand and fire a frightful gun, For nothing but the noise.