The Crow will tumble up and down At the first sight of spring And in old trees around the town Brush winter from its wing No longer flapping far away To naked fen they fly, Chill fare as on a winter's day, But field and valley nigh; Where swains are stirring out to plough And woods are just at hand, They seek the upland's sunny brow And strut from land to land, And often flap their sooty wing And sturt to neighbouring tree, And seem to try all ways to sing And almost speak in glee. The ploughman hears and turns his head Above to wonder why; And there a new nest nearly made Proclaims the winter by. |