LIVES there a poet, old or young, Who has not sung my praise? For ever silent be his tongue, Forgotten be his lays! I have a father dark and stern, A daughter bright and gay; I weep upon his funeral urn, I die beneath her sway. And yet that father binds me fast Hushing my low sweet voice; That daughter sets me free at last, And bids me still rejoice. Deceitful I am said to be, A thing of treacherous smiles, And many meet their end in me, Wreck'd by my sunny wiles. Yet health and cure 'tis mine to give To many a sickly frame; An antelope of Africa Usurps my well-known name. I'm born beneath the cold, hard ground, Yet life and joy I bring, With song and mirth to all around, Upon my emerald wing. I help to measure Time's swift flight; Tide has to do with me; In guns and traps behold my might: O say what can I be? |