By Eliza Allen Starr
An early bird is our Robin, bold Rob,
The first of the frosty spring,
A russet blush on his rounded breast,
And sunlight tipping his wing.
With a chirp how he hops from bough to bush,
And his song how blithe and clear!
Our youngest darling knows Robin Redbreast,
The merriest bird of the year.
On the sweetbrier bush, just under the eaves,
See, Robin has built his nest;
And where is the child with hand so rude
As Robin’s home to molest?
But mamma will slide the shutter each morn
To give a glimpse, on the sly,
At the lovely blue eggs by Redbreast laid,
In the nest so snug and shy.
From the topmost bough of that lofty elm
He sings to his mate so dear,
And four little robins will Redbreast raise
To sing us sweet songs next years.
And when the four little robins are fledged,
If our own Robins are good,
They shall hear a story of Robin Redbreasts
And two dear “Babes in the Wood.”