How simply unassuming is that strain,
It is the redbreast's song, the friend of man.
High is his perch, but humble is his home,
And well conceal'd. Sometimes within the sound
Of heartsome mill-clack, where the spacious door,
White-dusted, tells him plenty reigns around -
Close at the root of brier-bush, that o'erhangs
The narrow stream, with shealings bedded white,
He fixes his abode, and lives at will;
Oft near some single cottage he prefers
To rear his little home; there, pert and spruce,
He shares the refuse of the goodwife's churn,
Which kindly on the wall for him she leaves:
Below her lintel oft he lights, then in
He boldly flits, and fluttering loads his bill,
And to his young the yellow treasure bears.