Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TWA ROBINS, by P. MCARTHUR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TWA ROBINS, by                    
First Line: Red robin leev'd doon in yon green bosky glen
Last Line: He flutter'd awa' -- I ne'er saw him again.
Subject(s): Birds; Robins


RED Robin leev'd doon in yon green bosky glen,
Awa' frae the wand'rin's o' cruel-e'ed men;
Though Robin to strangers seem'd distant an' douce;
He aft used to ca' for a pick at my hoose.
I fed him wi' crum's o' the finest o' breid --
In truth he got a' that a mortal could need --.
An' yet he turn'd tir'd o' his bachelor life,
An' resolv'd frae the green woods to wale a young wife.

The spring time cam' roon' an' he cock'd up his crest,
He trimm'd his broon wing, an' he smooth'd his red breast,
Then socht the high bough o' the fresh buddin' thorn,
Beginnin' his sang wi' the dawnin' o' morn.
I watch'd my freen Robin, I heard his love lay;
Then I saw hoppin' near by his side on the spray
A bird o' his kind, though mair russet in hue,
Wha seem'd to say -- "Robin, I'm deein' for you."

Rob boo'd like a gallant; they flutter'd, caress'd;
Nae doot they got wed, for they built a fine nest
Underneath the burn brae, whaur brackens grow green,
An' fresh hazle boughs mak' a sweet summer screen.
They busk'd it wi' fog roots, they twin'd it wi' hair,
They lin'd it wi' down, an' wi' feathers sae rare --
'Twas a bonnie-built bower, just meet for a bride,
An' young Mrs. Robin she e'ed it wi' pride.

Noo, mornin' an' e'enin', Rob trill'd his love note,
His fond heart seem'd swellin' high up to his throat;
'Twas the mornin' o' love -- his heart was in tune;
But pleasure aft flits wi' the sweet honeymoon.
Oh, fast flew the sweet days, the time ne'er seem'd lang,
Aye chirpin' their love tales the green boughs amang;
Belyve, as was needed, by turns they wad rest
On the wee freckl'd pearlens she brocht to the nest.

An' sune yae fine morn, as if dune by a spell,
Sax wee downie craturs crapt each frae their shell;
They streetch'd out their bare necks an' heids a' thegither --
'Twas noo Robin kenn'd the real joys o' a faither.
In chorus they cried -- "Gie us meat, gie us meat;"
Frae mornin' till e'enin' 'twas naethin' but eat;
Then prood Mrs. Robin, their fond broodin' mither,
Seem'd losin' her notion for Rob a'thegither.

Rob saw there was naethin' for him noo but toil,
He rang'd the green glen, an' he brocht them the spoil;
They ne'er seem'd contented, but wrangl'd for mair;
Puir Robin aft starv'd that his family micht fare.
Still Robin was faithfu', and Robin was true,
He caught the fresh worms 'mid the morn's siller dew;
O' things that were dainty he brocht them a share.
Quoth he -- "For your comfort what can I dae mair?"

Still thrivin' they feather'd, till hame grew owre wee;
At length twa rash youths, while attemptin' to flee,
Fell owre the grey crag, and were droon'd in the burn --
Sad, sorrowfu' news for auld Robin's return.
In twa-three days langer the rest took the wing;
But the gorbie fared warst -- 'twas a puir silly thing --
Caught up by a weasel, an' ruthlessly strangl'd,
His frien's scarcely kenn'd him, sae sair he was mangl'd.

Poor Robin droop'd doon on his breast his wee head,
While aff through the woodlands his fine family sped;
Follow'd closely behin' by their fond fleechin' mither;
Cried Rob -- "She's awa', an' I'll ne'er woo anither;
Hoo cauldrife she looks noo on me since the morn
When she proffer'd her love while I sang on the thorn;
I ha'e toil'd for her welfare till careworn an' bald,
But comfortless noo I'm left oot in the cauld."

He e'ed the bit hame that in hope he had made,
Sae lane an' forsaken, sae towzl'd and braid, --
Like the hoose o' the thriftless wha leeve without care --
Quoth Robin -- "I'll build for sic vagrants nae mair.
But, oh! it is awfu' what faithers maun bear --
What changes I've kenn'd since the Spring o' the year!
They've a' come in turn -- love, sorrow, an' strife,"
And his sad bosom heav'd, as he sigh'd, -- "Such is life!"

Wi' sorrowfu' e'e he look'd in at my door,
But he wasna sae spree as I'd seen him before;
His wings were sair draigl'd, and bald was his crest;
The feathers were torn frae his ance rosy breast.
He seem'd like a mortal whose schemes had been wreck'd;
Sair bow'd doon wi' labour and sadly hen-peck'd.
Oh, nae mair in autumn I'll hear his refrain;
He flutter'd awa' -- I ne'er saw him again.





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