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In painted plumes superbly dress’d, A native of the gorgeous East,

By many a billow toss'd ; Poll gains at length the British shore, Part of the captain's precious store,

A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd
To teach him now and then a word,

As Poll can master it;
But 't is her own important charge,
To qualify him more at large,

And make him quite a wit.

“Sweet Poll!" his doating mistress cries, “Sweet Poll !" the mimic bird replies,

And calls aloud for sack. She next instructs him in the kiss ; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss ;

And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears ;
And, listening close with both his ears,

Just catches at the sound ;
But soon articulates aloud,
Much to the amazement of the crowd,

And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice
His humourous talent next employs ;

He scolds, and gives the lie. And now he sings, and now is sick, “ Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick,

Poor Poll is like to die !"

Belinda and her bird ! 't is rare
To meet with such a well-match'd pair,

The language and the tone,
Each character in every part
Sustain'd with so much grace and art,

And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures ;
But difficulties soon abate,
When birds are to be taught to prate,

And women are the teachers.


The lark sings for joy on his own loved land, In the furrow'd fields, by the breezes fann'd ;

And so revel we,

In the furrow'd sea,
As joyous and glad as the lark can be.

On the placid breast of the inland lake
The wild duck delights her pastime to take;

But the Petrel braves

The wild ocean waves,
His wing in the foaming billow he laves.

The halcyon loves, in the noontide beam,
To follow his sport on the tranquil stream ;

He fishes at ease

In the summer breeze,
But we go angling in the stormiest seas.

No song-note have we, but a piping cry,
That blends with the storm, when the winds rise

When the land-birds wail [high ;

We sport in the gale,
And merrily over the ocean we sail.

During the severe gales in November, 1836, a Stormy Petrel was driven inland, and took shelter in a pigsty, in Wellington, Salop, where it was made captive, and remained for some time in the possession of the editor of this little work. It afforded him no little amusement while skimming on the surface of a tub of water; and, strange to say, was remarkably tame. Circumstances, however, rendered it necessary that it should be destroyed, in order to be preserved, and it (notwithstanding the length of time it had been out of its “ element wild") fully verified the fact of its being easily converted into a lamp by the natives of the Feroe Islands, by the immense quantity of oil (for so small a creature) which was discharged from its bill after it was killed. THE NIGHTINGALE.

BEAUTIFUL Nightingale, who shall portray
All the varying turns of thy flowing lay!
And where is the lyre, whose chords shall reply
To the notes of thy changeful melody!
We may linger indeed, and listen to thee,
But the linked chain of thy harmony
It is not for mortal hands to unbind,
Nor the clue of thy mazy music to find.
Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill,
Or the verdant banks of the forest's rill,
And soft as the south wind the branches among,
Thy plaintive lament goes floating along.

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