A Mocking Bird was he, In a bushy, blooming tree, Imbosomed by the foliage and flower. And there he sat and sang,
Till all around him rang, With sounds, from out the merry mimic's bower. The little satirist Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;
He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw; Then, carol, drawl, and croak, As if he‘ d pass a joke On every other winged one he saw.
Together he would catch A gay and plaintive snatch, And mingle notes of half the feathered throng. For well the mocker knew,
Of every thing that flew, To imitate the manner and the song. The other birds drew near, And paused awhile to hear
How well he gave their voices and their airs. And some became amused; While some, disturbed, refused To own the sounds that others said were theirs.
The sensitive were shocked, To find their honors mocked By one so pert and voluble as he; They knew not if‘ t was done
In earnest or in fun; And fluttered off in silence from the tree. The silliest grew vain, To think a song or strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse, Was worthy to be heard Repeated by the bird; For of his wit they could not feel the force.
The charitable said, “Poor fellow! if his head Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left; But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours, Why, we shall not be losers by the theft.” The haughty said, “He thus, It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs, to pass them for his own! But if he only quotes In honor of our notes, We then were quite as honored, let alone.”
The wisest said, “If foe, Or friend, we still may know By him, wherein our greatest failing lies. So, let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved By every thing, becomes the truly wise.”
Cookies on Poetry Cove