William Cliffton (1772–1799)

FROM winter so dreary and long,

Escaped, ah! how welcome the day,

Sweet Bob with his innocent song,

Is return’d to his favorite spray.

When the voice of the tempest was heard,

As o’er the bleak mountain it pass’d,

He hied to the thicket, poor bird!

And shrunk from the pitiless blast.

By the maid of the valley survey’d,

Did she melt at thy comfortless lot?

Her hand, was it stretch’d to thy aid,

As thou pick’dst at the door of her cot?

She did; and the wintery wind,

May it howl not around her green grove;

Be a bosom so gentle and kind,

Only fann’d by the breathings of love.

She did; and the kiss of her swain,

With rapture, the deed shall requite,

That gave to my window again

Poor Bob and his song of delight.