Poor Cock Robin
My garden robin in the Spring
Was rapturous with glee,
And followed me with wistful wing
From pear to apple tree;
His melodies the summer long
He carolled with delight,
As if he could with jewelled song
Find favour in my sight.
And now that Autumn's in the air
He's singing singing still,
And yet somehow I cannot bear
The frenzy of his bill;
The keen wind ruffs his ruddy breast
As to bare boughs he clings;
The sun is sullen in the West
Yet still he sings and sings.
Soon, soon the legions of the snow
Will pitch their tents again,
And round my window-sill I know
He'll call for crumbs in vein;
The pulsing passion of his throat
Has hint of Winter woe;
The piercing sweetness of his note
entreats me not to go.
In vein, in vain, Oh valiant one,
You sing to bid me stay!
For all my life is in the sun
And I must fly away.
yet by no gold or orange glow
Will I be comforted,
Seeing blood-bright in bitter snow -
A robin dead.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Robin Redbreast
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away, --
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow, --
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
poem by William Allingham
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To Robin Redbreast
Merrily 'mid the faded leaves,
O Robin of the bright red breast!
Cheerily over the Autumn eaves,
Thy note is heard, bonny bird;
Sent to cheer us, and kindly endear us
To what would be a sorrowful time
Without thee in the weltering clime:
Merry art thou in the boughs of the lime,
While thy fadeless waistcoat glows on thy breast,
In Autumn's reddest livery drest.
A merry song, a cheery song!
In the boughs above, on the sward below,
Chirping and singing the live day long,
While the maple in grief sheds its fiery leaf,
And all the trees waning, with bitter complaining,
Chestnut, and elm, and sycamore,
Catch the wild gust in their arms, and roar
Like the sea on a stormy shore,
Till wailfully they let it go,
And weep themselves naked and weary with woe.
Merrily, cheerily, joyously still
Pours out the crimson-crested tide.
The set of the season burns bright on the hill,
Where the foliage dead falls yellow and red,
Picturing vainly, but foretelling plainly
The wealth of cottage warmth that comes
When the frost gleams and the blood numbs,
And then, bonny Robin, I'll spread thee out crumbs
In my garden porch for thy redbreast pride,
The song and the ensign of dear fireside.
poem by George Meredith
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A Broken Wing
Today I watched a robin
In our front yard
I thought by now that they should all be gone.
With winter 'round the corner
Snow on its way
Surely something must be wrong.
Then in that old oak tree I finally saw her
Where she sat gazing down upon her mate
And the song that she was singing
Seemed to say "I'll be right here"
"I'd like to go, but your love's made me stay."
He's got a broken wing
And that's why he can't fly
She just can't leave him there
So she stays by his side
They're just like you and me
Oh you should've heard her sing
They won't give up
It's just a broken wing.
I wish we all could learn
What they seem to have found
To love our families
When trouble comes around
I'll bet that God saw fit
To show them unto me
Him on the ground
Her in that tree.
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tampa Robins
The robin laughed in the orange-tree:
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:
While breasts are red and wings are bold
And green trees wave us globes of gold,
Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me
-- Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree.
Burn, golden globes in leafy sky,
My orange-planets: crimson I
Will shine and shoot among the spheres
(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears)
And thrid the heavenly orange-tree
With orbits bright of minstrelsy.
If that I hate wild winter's spite --
The gibbet trees, the world in white,
The sky but gray wind over a grave --
Why should I ache, the season's slave?
I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree
`Gramercy, winter's tyranny.'
I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime;
My wing is king of the summer-time;
My breast to the sun his torch shall hold;
And I'll call down through the green and gold
`Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me,
Bestir thee under the orange-tree.'"
poem by Sidney Lanier
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What Does It Show
What does it show
When a cold wind does blow
And a robin, sings you a song,
Are you in love
Or are you just a hug
Looking for a love for so long.
So what does it mean
After that you have seen
A robing singing a song,
Do you think of the past
And the love you thought would last
And think of the love that ran away,
So when you listen to the robin
And do you feel your heart throbbing
To a scene, you have received.
And while the cold wind just blows
And while the river still flows
Your feelings just grows and grow,
And if your sitting by the river
To a cold wind you begin to shiver
As you think of the things you've seen,
And the robin only sings
And in the mind her heart rings
To the feeling that you have been,
So sing her a song
And with you she’ll sing along
With you, and the world aloud.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The songster
Music, music with throb and swing,
Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,--
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
Is sweet as the robin's song.
He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.
Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
Till his music drowns the day.
He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Cold winter night
It was a cold winter night.
All was deadly still.
My guts so tight
I must kill!
The cry of a wolf enters my head
Like a train whistle that echoes far away.
Can it be…something lives on this winter night?
Follow the sound and pray
It does not go away.
My hunger juices flowing; I go.
I and the wolf both now know
Neither is alone in the land of snow.
Oh, how I wish I had his sight
On this cold winter night
The north wind moved in the night before.
The ground all snow and bitter cold…so bitter cold.
The sky filled with stars.
The snow grows old.
My guts so tight
What a cold, cold winter night!
The wolf stays hidden from my sight
With it’s furry coat of gray and white.
He glides across the snow without sound
Like a ballerina tiptoeing over the ground.
My guts so tight
On this bitter cold winter night
I with my blood running slow
My hands burning cold; my face red glow
Driven by the pain in my gut
On this cold-cold bitter winter night
I must kill
To make the night still
So the hunger pains
Will be gone again
I hear nothing on this cold winter night
My hair stands up on the back of my neck
I fear the wolf knows
I turn
Crutch to spring
His fangs showing white; my knife in my hand
We circle like two roosters in a pen.
For one this will be the end.
The pain in my gut is still tight
I will kill but not for the trill
On such a killing bitter cold winter night
With the grace of a cat he springs to flight
My throat his aim on this cold winter night
My knife hits his heart…he hunches in pain;
His fangs rip my throat cutting the jugular vein.
The snows now stain on this cold winter night.
Blood and flesh flung upon the snow
Cries of pain, moans of death…soon will go
From this bitter cold ground
All is still on winter’s playground.
The wolf dances no more
My lips move but there is no sound.
My gut is still tight
I feel alright
No more time to fight
On this bitter cold winter night
Wind and snow now fill the air.
The wolf has an empty den.
The snow will be tracked no more.
Twinkle, twinkle little star
Genocide complete
In a galaxy so far
poem by Ronald Brissette
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Evensong
It is late, on a cold, dark, wintry afternoon;
Up high in a tree, a small bird merrily croons.
Trade in the town, has now begun to wind down,
And taking centre stage, is the bird’s sweet sound.
Like an operatic singer, his voice soars high,
And his song delights many, as they pass by.
Your ears can not help, but hear his loud call,
As the sun, once again, sets and darkness falls.
He sings for joy, at the very top of his voice;
To listen to his song, you have little choice.
He sits at the very top of the tallest tree,
Singing so loudly; his heart full of glee.
His plaintive call pierces the cool air,
As he sings his song, without a care.
A pure quality, his sweet song holds,
And he sings it out, so bright and bold.
His singsong attracts many a nice comment;
His performance appears to be Heaven sent.
Of his captivated audience, he is unaware;
His song boasts beauty, beyond compare.
Like a church choir, as they sing evensong,
This small bird sings so very keen and strong.
Through the dark streets, home, I wearily wind;
Sad to be leaving the bird’s sweet song behind.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Broken Wing
Today I watched a robin
In our front yard
I thought by now that they schold all be gone.
With winter round the corner
Snow on its way
Surely something must be wrong.
Then in that old oak tree I finally saw her
Where she sat gazing down upon her mate
And the song that she was singing
Seemed to say Ill be right here
Id like to go, but your loves made me stay.
Hes got a broken wing
And thats why he cant fly
She just cant leave him there
So she stays by his side
Theyre just like you and me
Oh you shouldve heard her sing
They wont give up
Its just a broken wing.
I wish we all could learn
What they seem to have found
To love our families
When trouble comes around
Ill bet that God saw fit
To show them unto me
Him on the ground
Her in that tree.
Hes got a broken wing
And thats why he cant fly
She just cant leave him there
So she stays by his side
Theyre just like you and me
Oh you shouldve heard her sing
They wont give up
We wont give up
They wont give up
Its just a broken wing.
Ooooooooh...
Its just a broken wing.
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Minstrels Song
Words a simple song
A minstrel sings
A way of life in his eyes
Hear the morning call of waking birds
When they are singing, bringing
Love - love.
Everywhere love is all around,
Everywhere love is all around.
Now the winters gone
Cold wind has blown
The endless stream in our lives
Where the minstrel sings
This simple song
Hes always bringing, singing,
Love - love.
Everywhere love is all around,
Everywhere love is all around.
Listen to the one
Who sings of love.
Follow our friend,
Our wandering friend,
Listen to the one,
Who sings of love.
Everywhere love is around,
Around, around.
Here the nations sing
Our minstrels song,
As he walks by in their lives
Soon the spring will come,
And everyone will all be singing, bringing
Love - love
Everywhere love is all around,
Everywhere love is all around.
Listen to the one
Who sings of love.
Follow our friend,
Our wandering friend,
Listen to the one,
Who sings of love.
Everywhere love is around,
Around, around.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Is Lovely All the Year
When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day -
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green - Fal lal la!
Summer's rose - Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn's gold - Fal lal la!
Winter's grey - Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away -
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope - Fal lal la!
Summer's joy - Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil - Fal lal la!
Winter, rest - Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best -
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too -
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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A Good Friend To Me
The gold billed blackbird whistling upon the the garden tree
For the past few years a good neighbour to me
He whistles every day all through the Spring
And his song to it has a distinctive ring.
From the other all dark males of his race him I know
Since on his left wing a few flight feathers white as snow
He tells other males of his kind in his song
This patch of ground to me and mine belong.
Each time I hear the blackbird pipe and sing
My thoughts return to the far northern Spring
On Spring evenings in groves by Millstreet Town
The blackbirds pipe before the sun goes down.
The blackbird whistling on the wattle tree
He only sings to proclaim territory
His neighbour males the warning in his song hear
And his border they dare not venture near.
The blackbird in the garden a good friend to me
I know him by sight each time him I see
By the few white feathers on his left side wing
And his song it takes me to the Northern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A November Note
Why, throstle, do you sing
In this November haze?
Singing for what? for whom?
Deem you that it is Spring,
Or that your lonely lays
Will stave off Winter's gloom?
Then did the bird reply:
``I sing because I know
That Spring will surely come:
That is the reason why,
Though menaced by the snow,
Even now I am not dumb.
``But few are they that hear,
And fewer still that feel,
The meaning of my song,
Until the note be clear,
Re-echoed be the peal,
Early, and late, and long.
``But you have heard and owned
The sound of my refrain,
Yet tentative and low.
Thus, poet, be intoned
Your own foreshadowing strain,
Trusting that some will know:
``That some will know and say,
When greetings of the Spring
Wake Winter from its bed,
This is the self-same lay
We overheard him sing
When dead hearts deemed him dead.''
poem by Alfred Austin
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Triolet: The Robin's Song
The robin perched atop the tree
Signals spring his warbling song;
How long will I be pleased to see
The robin perched atop the tree?
Because it seems he sings for me,
I feel I want to sing along
With the robin perched atop the tree
Who signals spring his warbling song!
poem by Richard St. Clair
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The Laws Of Nature
In the lonely wood of Clara orange breast robin pipes his song
A warning to all Clara robins 'that this here space to me belong'
And neighbour cock robin listen and the message is understood
Of old cocky himself master at the corner of the wood.
Every morning of the Spring time from branch of tall larch tree
He utter forth a warning in a song like melody
As if to say 'hey neighbour robin stay clear of my boundary'
For if you venture across my border blood will be spilt needlessly.
Even in the wilds of the wild kingdom all creatures are not wholly free
Some are bound by law of Nature to stay in one territory
And like us mortal humans they fall out and disagree
And they wage war on each other and for the loser it's die or flee.
In the lonely wood of Clara on this bright morning in May
Orange breast robin pipes his warning 'keep away oh keep away'
Keep away ye other robins from my wife and family
Dare ye venture across my border this acre belong to me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Our Tree
When spring comes round, our apple tree
Is very full of flowers,
And when a bird sits on a branch
The petals fall in showers.
When summer comes, our apple tree
Is very full of green,
And everywhere you look in it
There is a leafy screen.
When autumn comes, our apple tree
Is full of things to eat.
The apples hang from every branch
To tumble at our feet.
When winter comes, our apple tree
Is full of snow and ice
And rabbits come to visit it...
We think our tree is nice.
poem by Marchette Chute
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The Seventh Of June
The tiny frogs singing in the roadside drain
And the sky overcast it is looking like rain
And though not in any way cold enough for to snow
The wind from the hill with a chilly breath blow.
The bird who does sing every day of the year
The silvery billed magpie so pleasant to hear
Once heard him one never could hope to get wrong
Familiar to all is his beautiful song.
For the seventh day of June it is not a bad day
And Spring after all is not that far away
In the nearby park I can hear the pee wee
And the sparrows are chirping on the garden tree.
The Autumn is over and Summer long gone
And on the first week of Winter the clock ticking on
The magpie is fluting his beautiful tune
It is not a bad day for the seventh of June.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Trico's Song
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
What Bird So Sings, Yet So Does Wail?
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
Oh, 'tis the ravished nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring,
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring.
Spring's Welcome
WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!