RICHARD BARNEFIELD

20 j. Thilomd

A S it fell upon a day

• • In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone : She, poor bird, as all forlorn Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ; Tereu, Tereu ! by and by; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah ! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee : King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing : Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.

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