Birds

"The redbreast oft, at evening hours, Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid."

"Thus I would waste, thus end my careless days, And robin redbreasts, whom men praise For pious birds, should, when I die, Make both my monument and elegy."

"They that cheer up a prisoner but with their sight are robin redbreasts that bring straws in their bills to cover a dead man in extremity!"

"Hail, Bishop Valentine! whose day this is; All the air is thy diocese, And all the chirping choristers And other birds are thy parishioners; Thou marriest every year The lyric lark, and the grave, whispering dove; The sparrow that neglects his life for love, The household bird with [the] red stomacher."

"Covering with moss the dead’s unclosed eye, The little redbreast teacheth charitie."

"Did you ever see two such little robin ruddocks Laden with breeches?"

"Or as the red breast byrds, Whome prettie merlynes hold, Ful fast in foote, by winter’s night To fende themselves from colde.Though afterwards the hauke For pitie let them scape, Yet al that day they fede in feare, And doubt a second rape.And in the nexter night, Ful many times do crie, Remembering yet the ruthful plight Wherein they late did lye."

"There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground."

"Laid out for dead, let thy last kindnesse be With leaves and moss-worke for to cover me; And while the wood-nimphs my cold corse inter, Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister! For epitaph, in foliage, next write this Here, here, the tomb of Robin Herrick is."

"When I departed am, ring thou my knell, Thou pittifull and pretty Philomel; And when I’m laid out for a corse, then be Thou sexton, redbreast, for to cover me."

"Sweet Amarillis, by a spring’s Soft and soule-melting murmurings Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew A robin redbreast, who at view, Not seeing her at all to stir, Brought leaves and mosse to cover her; But while he, perking, there did prie About the arch of either eye, The lid began to let out day, At which poore robin flew away; And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved, He chirpt for joy to see himself deceived."

"Oh, remember this, He that does good deeds here waits at a table Where angels are his fellow-servitors. TORENTI: I am no robin redbreast to bring straws To cover such a corse."

"Now Cador’s corse he viewed, With hoary moss and faded leaves bestrewed; In days of old not yet did we invade The harmless tenants of the woodland shade. The crimson-breasted warbler o’er the slain, While frequent rose his melancholy strain, With pious care, ’twas all he could, supplied The funeral rites by ruthless man denied."

"Bearing His cross, while Christ passed forth forlorn, His God-like forehead by the mock crown torn, A little bird took from that crown one thorn. To soothe the dear Redeemer's throbbing head, That bird did what she could; His blood, 'tis said, Down dropping, dyed her tender bosom red. Since then no wanton boy disturbs her nest; Weasel nor wild cat will her young molest; All sacred deem the bird of ruddy breast."

"On fair Britannia's isle, bright bird, A legend strange is told of thee.— 'Tis said thy blithesome song was hushed While Christ toiled up Mount Calvary, Bowed 'neath the sins of all mankind; And humbled to the very dust By the vile cross, while viler men Mocked with a crown of thorns the Just. Pierced by our sorrows, and weighed down By our transgressions,—faint and weak, Crushed by an angry Judge's frown, And agonies no word can speak,— 'Twas then, dear bird, the legend says That thou, from out His crown, didst tear The thorns, to lighten the distress, And ease the pain that he must bear, While pendant from thy tiny beak The gory points thy bosom pressed, And crimsoned with thy Saviour's blood The sober brownness of thy breast! Since which proud hour for thee and thine. As an especial sign of grace God pours like sacramental wine Red signs of favor o'er thy race!"

"The robin redbreast till of late had rest, And children sacred held a martin’s nest."

"For ever from his threshold fly, Who, void of honour, once shall try, With base inhospitable breast, To bar the freedom of his guest. O, rather seek the peasant’s shed, For he will give thee wasted bread, And fear some new calamity Should any there spread snares for thee."

"You have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast."

"With fairest flowers Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would, With charitable bill,--O bill, sore-shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!--bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse."

"Then the Redbreast His tunes redrest And sayde now wyll I holde With the churche, for there Out of the ayre I kepe me from the colde.Te per orbem terrarum In usum Sarum; He sange cum gloria, Sancta was nexte; And then the holye text Confitebur ecclesia."

"The flecked pie to chatter Of this dolorous matter. And robyn redbreast He shall be the preest, The requiem masse to synge, Softly warbelynge, With helpe of the red sparrow And the chattrynge swallow This herse for to halow."

"I found a robin’s nest within our shed, And in the barn a wren has young ones bred."

"On her (the nightingale) waites Robin in his redde livorie, who sits as a crowner on the murthred man; and seeing his body naked plays the sorrie tailour to make him a mossy rayment."

"The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted Man His annual visit. Half afraid, he first Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o’er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is— Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs Attract his slender feet."

"Robin Redbreast with his notes Singing aloft in the quire, Warneth to get you frieze coats, For winter then draweth near."

"Call for the robin redbreast and the wren, Since o’er shady groves they hover And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men, For with his nails he’ll dig them up again."

""Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard, My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird Carries the water that quenches it?"He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sin You can see the mark on his red breast still Of fires that scorch as he drops it in."My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird, Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, Very dear to the heart of Our Lord Is he who pities the lost like Him!""Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth; "Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: Each good thought is a drop wherewith To cool and lessen the fires of hell."

"Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When autumn winds are sobbing? Art thou the Peter of Norway boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, whom by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother?"

"Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring."

"Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."

"Cock Robin got up early At the break of day, And went to Jenny's window To sing a roundelay. He sang Cock Robin's love To little Jenny Wren, And when he got unto the end Then he began again."

"I am the mistress, so let my birds assemble for me where the sheaves are gathered! I am Nance, so let my birds assemble for me where the sheaves are gathered! Let the birds of heaven and earth stand at my service! Let every bird without a name bring offerings!"

"The beauty and genius of a work of art may be reconceived, though its first material expression be destroyed; a vanished harmony may yet again inspire the composer; but when the last individual of a race of living things breathes no more, another heaven and another earth must pass before such a one can be again."

"Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along."

"Birds of a feather will gather together."

"Over increasingly large areas of the United States, spring now comes unheralded by the return of the birds, and the early mornings are strangely silent where once they were filled with the beauty of bird song."

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."

"You must not think, sir, to catch old birds with chaff."

"Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last."

"For birds the goal is simple—to secure a territory, to win a mate, to contribute the only lasting legacy of their brief lives—the passing on of genes to the next generation."

"Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving—all come back together. But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he— "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!""

"Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Along the waves dost thou fly? Oh! rather, bird, with me Through this fair land rejoice!"

"Dame naturis menstralis."

"A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter."

"To warm their little loves the birds complain."

"Mayr became a mentor for many promising young men with an interest in birds. He urged them to pick a bird, to follow and study it, to learn the secrets of its breeding life, its winter habits, to take in small details that no one else knew because no one else had ever watched so closely. Mayr argued against a stream of ornithologists who hoped to make the science entirely academic, feeling that serious amateurs could make valuable contributions to the field of ornithology if they watched birds seriously and well."

"The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang, Our hearts and lips together."

"A feather in hand is better than a bird in the air."

"When the swallows homeward fly, When the roses scattered lie, When from neither hill or dale, Chants the silvery nightingale: In these words my bleeding heart Would to thee its grief impart; When I thus thy image lose Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose?"

"Better one byrde in hand than ten in the wood."