I am a little finch with wings of gold,
I dwell within a cage upon the wall.
I cannot fly within my narrow fold,--
I eat, and drink, and sing, and that is all.
My good old master talks to me sometimes,
But if he knows my speech I cannot tell.
He is so large he cannot sing nor fly,
But he and I are both named Bouverel.
I think perhaps he really wants to sing,
Because the busy hammer that he wields
Goes clinking light as merry bells that ring
When morris-dancers frolic in the fields,
And this is what the music seems to tell
To me, the finch, the feathered Bouverel.
"Kling-a-ling--clack!
Masters, what do ye lack?
Hammer your heart in't, and strike with a knack!
Flackety kling--
Biff, batico, bing!
Platter, cup, candlestick, necklace or ring!
Spare not your labor, lads, make the gold sing,--
And some day perhaps ye may work for the King!"
[Illustration]