On The Death Of A Musical Bird Poem by William Crafts

Sweet little Bird, whose breath
Was ever tun'd with glee;
I little thought that death
Would lay his hands on thee.

He must have let thee go,
Had he thy mistress heard;
For death could not say-no,
To prayers that she preferred.

'Twas well they did not meet;
Or death enamour'd there,
Had ta'en thy mistress sweet,
And left thee in despair.

It was thy charming duty
In her sweet ear to sing,
Go-find a brighter beauty
Before thou rest thy wing.

But since the sky before thee
Discovers none so fair,
Let her no more deplore thee-
Return, sweet minstrel, there.