Songs out of Doors by Van Dyke, Henry, 1852-1933

I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear, Because he'd bless me, every year, With _"Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."_

1895.

THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

When May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note-- See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run-- One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, _"Witchery--witchery--witchery."_

Along the shady road I look-- Who's coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white-- The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "_Witchery--witchery--witchery!_"

1895.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

Do you remember, father,-- It seems so long ago,-- The day we fished together Along the Pocono? At dusk I waited for you, Beside the lumber-mill, And there I heard a hidden bird That chanted, "whip-poor-will," "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

The place was all deserted; The mill-wheel hung at rest; The lonely star of evening Was throbbing in the west; The veil of night was falling; The winds were folded still; And everywhere the trembling air Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!" "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

You seemed so long in coming, I felt so much alone; The wide, dark world was round me, And life was all unknown; The hand of sorrow touched me, And made my senses thrill With all the pain that haunts the strain Of mournful whip-poor-will. "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

What knew I then of trouble? An idle little lad, I had not learned the lessons That make men wise and sad. I dreamed of grief and parting, And something seemed to fill My heart with tears, while in my ears Resounded "whip-poor-will." "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"

'Twas but a cloud of sadness, That lightly passed away; But I have learned the meaning Of sorrow, since that day. For nevermore at twilight, Beside the silent mill, I'll wait for you, in the falling dew, And hear the whip-poor-will. "_Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!_" Sad and shrill,--"_whippoorwill!_"