Come, come, Mr. Peacock,
You must not be so proud,
Although you can boast such a train,
For there's many a bird
Far more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.
Let me tell you, gay bird,
That a suit of fine clothes
Is a sorry distinction at most,
And seldom much valued
Excepting by those
Who only such graces can boast.
The nightingale certainly
Wears a plain coat,
But she cheers and delights with her song;
While you, though so vain,
Cannot utter a note
To please by the use of your tongue.
The hawk cannot boast
Of a plumage so gay,
But more piercing and clear is her eye;
And while you are strutting
About all the day,
She gallantly soars in the sky.
The dove may be clad
In a plainer attire,
But she is not so selfish and cold;
And her love and affection
More pleasure inspire
Than all your fine purple and gold.
So, you see, Mr. Peacock,
You must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train,
For many a bird
Is more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.