[From the same]
There is a strange, mysterious bird,
Which few have seen, but all have heard:
He sits upon a fallen tree,
Through all the night, and thus sings he:
Whippowil!
Whippowil!
Whippowil!
Despising show, and empty noise,
The gaudy fluttering thing he flies:
And in the echoing vale by night
Thus sings the pensive anchorite:
Whippowil!
Oh, had I but his voice and wings,
I'd envy not a bird that sings;
But gladly would I flit away,
And join the wild nocturnal lay:
Whippowil!
The school-boy, tripping home in haste,
Impatient of the night's repast,
Would stop to hear my whistle shrill,
And answer me with mimic skill:
Whippowil!
The rich man's scorn, the poor man's care,
Folly in silk, and Wisdom bare,
Virtue on foot, and Vice astride,
No more should vex me while I cried:
Whippowil!
How blest!--Nor loneliness nor state,
Nor fame, nor wealth, nor love, nor hate,
Nor av'rice, nor ambition vain,
Should e'er disturb my tranquil strain:
Whippowil!
Whippowil!
Whippowil!