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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  12 To a Caty-Did

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By PhilipFreneau

12 To a Caty-Did

IN a branch of willow hid

Sings the evening Caty-did:

From the lofty-locust bough

Feeding on a drop of dew,

In her suit of green arrayed

Hear her singing in the shade—

Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did!

While upon a leaf you tread,

Or repose your little head

On your sheet of shadows laid,

All the day you nothing said:

Half the night your cheery tongue

Revelled out its little song,—

Nothing else but Caty-did.

From your lodging on the leaf

Did you utter joy or grief?

Did you only mean to say,

I have had my summer’s day,

And am passing, soon, away

To the grave of Caty-did:

Poor, unhappy Caty-did!

But you would have uttered more

Had you known of nature’s power;

From the world when you retreat,

And a leaf’s your winding sheet,

Long before your spirit fled,

Who can tell but nature said,—

Live again, my Caty-did!

Live, and chatter Caty-did.

Tell me, what did Caty do?

Did she mean to trouble you?

Why was Caty not forbid

To trouble little Caty-did?

Wrong, indeed, at you to fling,

Hurting no one while you sing,—

Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!

Why continue to complain?

Caty tells me she again

Will not give you plague or pain;

Caty says you may be hid,

Caty will not go to bed

While you sing us Caty-did,—

Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!

But, while singing, you forgot

To tell us what did Caty not:

Caty did not think of cold,

Flocks retiring to the fold,

Winter with his wrinkles old;

Winter, that yourself foretold

When you gave us Caty-did.

Stay serenely on your nest;

Caty now will do her best,

All she can, to make you blest;

But you want no human aid,—

Nature, when she formed you, said,

“Independent you are made,

My dear little Caty-did:

Soon yourself must disappear

With the verdure of the year,”

And to go, we know not where,

With your song of Caty-did.