Modest and shy as a nun is she;
	One weak chirp is her only note;
	Braggarts and prince of braggarts is he,
	Pouring boasts from his little throat.

Bryant.    

	Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife,
	Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
	Passing at home a patient life,
	Broods in the grass white her husband sings.

Bryant.    

	When Nature had made all her birds,
	With no more cares to think on,
	She gave a rippling laugh and out
	There flew a bobolink.

C. P. Cranch.    

	Bobolink! that in the meadow,
	Or beneath the orchard’s shadow,
	Keepest up a constant rattle
	Joyous as my children’s prattle,
	Welcome to the north again.

Thos. Hill.    

	Out of the fragrant heart of bloom,
	The bobolinks are singing;
	Out of the fragrant heart of bloom
	The apple-tree whispers to the room,
	“Why art thou but a nest of gloom
	While the bobolinks are singing?”

W. D. Howells.