The poor old woman lifted up her voice again,
“The fowler had taken all the blackbirds away—
“They all were gone, and I knew not to where.
“I looked for them; truly I did.
“There was one I saw several decades ago
“But he had flown far away; the Skylarks
“Such pretty voice, yet also very common,
“Now warble their tunes from time to time—
“But, as I had sung about the blackbirds—
“Not the Jacobites,—When my crown was lost,
“There had recently appeared at my door
“A thrush, who though not as pretty a song as the skylark
“Had the dignity and pearly sheen of feathers I like.
“My heart was refreshed by seeing him,
“Though I had wished I would see more,”
Said the poor old woman, knitting upon the hills.
B. K. Neifert 