[The little, disregarded wagtail of our own land, which we may
frequently see wherever insects abound--on the green meadow, or
by the margin of the brook--is the khunjunee of the Hindoo, by
whose romantic and fanciful mythology he has been made a holy
bird, bearing on his breast the impression of Salagrama, the
stone of Vishnoo, a sacred petrified shell. Protected by this
prestige, the little creature ranges unmolested near the
habitations of man, and may in this respect be styled the robin
of the East. To Europeans in the East, this bird is also an
object of interest, as being a precursor of the delightful cold
season, the advent of which is anxiously looked for by every
Anglo-Indian. The little khunjunee makes his appearance in the
early part of November, and departs as the hot season
approaches--I think in March or April. The note of this little
bird can hardly aspire to be called a song; I used, however, to
think it a pleasing twitter. I paid particular attention to two
khunjunees, which used to return every season and haunt our
habitation: they would pick up insects from the pavement, and eat
the crumbs with which they were plentifully supplied. I have
watched them pluming themselves on the balustrade, while their
sparkling black eyes glanced fearlessly and confidingly in my
face. When I now see a wagtail at home in Scotland, I cannot but
look upon it as an old friend, reminding me of my departed youth,
and recalling many soothing as well as mournful recollections.]
Welcome to thee, sweet khunjunee!
Which is thy best-loved home?--
Over the sea, in a far countrie,
Or the land to which thou art come?
What carest thou?--thou revelest here
In the bright and balmy air;
And again to regions far remote
Thou returnest--and summer is there!
Thou art sacred here, where the Brahmin tells
Of the godhead's seal impressed
By Vishnoo's hand--that thou bearest still
His gorget on thy breast.
And welcomed thou art, with grateful heart,
For well doth the Hindoo know,
That at thy approach the clouds disperse,
And temperate breezes blow.
Yet little he cares where thy sojourn hath been
So long, since he saw thee last;
Nor in what far land of storm or calm
The rainy months have passed.
But others there be, who think with me,
Thou hast been to that favoured land,
Which restores the bloom to the faded cheek,
And strength to the feeble hand.
And my children believe, that since thou wert here,
Thou hast compassed half the earth,
And that now thou hast come, like a thought in a dream,
From the land of their father's birth;
Bringing with thee the healthful breeze
That blows from the heath-clad hill,
And the breath of the primrose and gowan that bloom
On the bank by the babbling rill.
Then welcome to thee, little khunjunee!
May thy presence a blessing confer;
Still of breezes cool, and returning health,
The faithful harbinger.