THE

BLUE BIRD.

The blue-bird sings in the dark

greenwood;

Right cheerily singeth he;

And his blue wings glance through the waving boughs,

He feareth not cold, or rain, or

snow,

Oh, a merry bird is he!

When the sleet and the cold spoil the bright green leaves,

And icicles hang on the boughs, He pipes his gay song from his hole in the tree,

As gaily as ever in summer sang he!

Not a fig cares he for the snow!

GOLDFINCH,

OR

YELLOW-BIRD.

Little bird, with golden wings, That by my window sweetly sings, Tell your name to me!

When the air is soft and warm, When the flowers are breathing

balm,