The Fifteen Acres

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  I cling and swing
  On a branch, or sing
Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O:
  Or fling my wing
  On the air, and bring
To sleepier birds a warning, O:
  That the night's in flight,
  And the sun's in sight,
And the dew is the grass adorning, O:
  And the green leaves swing
  As I sing, sing, sing,
Up by the river,
  Down the dell,
To the little wee nest,
  Where the big tree fell,
So early in the morning, O.

  I flit and twit
  In the sun for a bit
When his light so bright is shining, O:
  Or sit and fit
  My plumes, or knit
Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O:
  And she with glee
  Shows unto me
Underneath her wings reclining, O:
  And I sing that Peg
  Has an egg, egg, egg,
  Up by the oat-field,
  Round by the mill,
Past the meadow,
  Down the hill,
So early in the morning, O.

  I stoop and swoop
  On the air, or loop
Through the trees, and then go soaring, O:
  To group with a troop
  On the gusty poop
While the wind behind is roaring, O:
  I skim and swim
  By a cloud's red rim
And up to the azure flooring, O:
  And my wide wings drip
  As I slip, slip, slip,
Down through the rain-drops,
  Back where Peg
Broods in the nest
  On the little white egg,
So early in the morning, O.

© James Brunton Stephens