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The Boblink or Bob-Lincoln - An 1841 Poem
By Thomas Fisher.
- Upon New-Hampshire’s grassy hills
- My cradle was a tussoc nest,
- My lullaby the murmuring rills;
- And there my infant dreams were blest
- With visions of June’s laughing hours,
- And butter-cups and clover-flowers;
- And there my father's simple song
- Was ‘happy as the day was long;’
- I cannot tell, you cannot think,
- How bravely there he sang Boblink!
- How gay he sung Boblink, Boblink!
- Link-link, Boblink! Boblink, Link-link!
-
- While yet the sunlight’s strongest hour
- Sheds o’er those hills its genial power,
- From day to day we nestlings grew,
- And when the mowers struck, we flew:
- Dreadful destruction came to pass
- O’er all those lovely flowers and grass;
- And when the men and maidens came
- To spread and rake the fragrant hay,
- You would not know the scene the same;
- Vast ruin happens in a day!
- I cannot tell, you cannot think,
- How sad my father sang Boblink!
- How mournfully he sang Boblink!
-
- Swiftly our orb’s fixed zodiacs run,
- That lift and lower the glorious sun,
- And soon the slow-declining light
- Fell feebly on my native height;
- And summer’s scenes and gayest flowers
- Gave place to Autumn’s sober hours.
- Eternal Instinct’s guardian care,
- That guides the wanderers of the air,
- Called all the passage-birds away,
- Impelled us, though we longed to stay.
- The warblers in their native groves,
- The web-foots by old ocean's shore,
- Rallied their little ones and loves,
- To trust the trackless air once more.
-
- Albeit our native fields were bright,
- And August flowers were blooming nigh,
- Our kindred joined the general flight
- Glad pilgrims to a warmer sky;
- We knew that Nature’s harvests there
- Were spread for every bird of air:
- On the free bounty of her store
- Trusted our sires in days of yore.
- Our beaux were not in summer dress;
- They sang their plaintive autumn notes,
- Not those the rattle-caps express
- When love incites their merry throats;
- So sad their hearts, you would not think
- They ever sang Boblink—link-link!
-
- Bright summer ripens many a seed,
- But none more luscious than the reed
- That robes the islands and broad shores,
- Where to the sea Shanunga* pours;
- Thither our countless flights repair,
- Like starlings blackening all the air.
- ’Tis a vast festival; the sportsmen pour
- A rolling volley on the shore;
- Falcons are there; and all-devouring man
- Feasts on fat reed-birds! as on ortolan ;
- Till cool September bids our millions fly
- To the warm mantle of a sunnier sky;
- Then o’er Savannah's fertile delta spread,
- The rice-plant waves its many-feeding head;
- Your Boblink-Rice-bird takes a bounteous share,
- And smooths his plumage in a genial air.
-
- Till guardian Nature, that protects us all,
- When heroes perish, or when sparrows fall,
- Still bids us follow toward the southern zone,
- And make the sun’s bright journey all our own.
- O’er ‘lands of flowers,’ and o’er the tropic isles
- Where all unblanched, perennial verdure smiles;
- High o’er the sea-boy through the crimson air,
- From isle to isle our myriad swarms repair;
- Where Amazon’s luxuriant shores are rife,
- And earth’s bright girdle teems with joyous life.
- There, while stern winter's deadliest rigors blow,
- Our native hills deep-whelmed in drifted snow,
- Your Boblink-pilgrim, till life’s span is run,
- Worships and migrates with the varying sun:
- Until the day-star in his course on high
- Wheels his proud chariot in the southern sky,
- And strengthening sunlight on our native hills
- Wakes from their winter sleep the frozen rills,
- And calls the warblers from the orange groves
- To the spring scenery of their summer loves:
- We take Shanunga’s meadows by the way,
- And there we’ll greet you on the third of May:
- Our beaux and belles in summer feather,
- Our mated birds, gallant and glorious,
- We’ll sing for love and lovely weather,
- And make the budding groves uproarious.
-
- We stay not; for we seek again
- Each his own native mountain glen;
- And there, when some kind bird will share
- Our fondest loves and parent care,
- Near the same spot we'll build a nest,
- Where erst our infant dreams were blest:
- And when the mower whets his sithe,
- He'll listen to the Boblink's song:
- Earth cannot boast a bird more blithe,
- When June's gay hours are bright and long.
September, 1841. The Knickbocker 18(3): 234-236. Only the poetic portion of this article is included.