Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SONG OF THE CARRION CROW by ELIZA COOK

First Line: MY ROOST IS THE CREAKING GIBBET'S BEAM
Subject(s): BIRDS;
The wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl,-
Rare, brave beasts are they;
The worm may crawl in the carcass foul,
The tiger may glut o'er his prey:
The bloodhound may hang with untired fang,-
He is cunning and strong, I trow;
But Death's stanch crew holds none more true
Than the broad-winged Carrion Crow.
My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam,
Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching;
Where the clattering chain rings back again
To the night-wind's desolate screeching.
To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow,
Merrily rocked am I;
And I note with delight the traveller's fright
As he cowers and hastens by.
I scent the deeds of fearful crime;
I wheel o'er the parricide's head;
I have watched the sire, who, mad with ire,
The blood of his child hath shed.
I can chatter the tales at which
The ear of innocence starts;
And ye would not mark my plumage as dark
If ye saw it beside some hearts.
I have seen the friend spring out as a foe,
And the guest waylay his host;
And many a right arm strike a blow
The lips never dared to boast.
I have seen the soldier, millions adored,
Do other than deed of the brave;
When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
And dug a midnight grave.
I have fluttered where secret work has been done,
Wrought with a trusty blade;
But what did I care, whether foul or fair,
If I shared the feast it made?
A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash;
A short and heavy groan!
Revenge was sweet-its work was complete-
The dead and I were alone!
I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek,
I perched on the clammy brow;
And a dainty treat was that fresh meat
To the greedy Carrion Crow.
I have followed the traveller, dragging on
O'er the mountains long and cold;
For I knew at last he must sink in the blast,
Though spirit was never so bold.
hovered close; his limbs grew stark-
His life-stream stood to congeal;
And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw
I should soon have another meal.
He fell, and slept like a fair, young bride,
In his winding-sheet of snow;
And quickly his breast had a table guest
In the hungry Carrion Crow.
If my pinions ache in the journey I take,
No resting-place will do
Till I light alone on a churchyard stone,
Or a branch of the gloomy yew.
Famine and Plague bring joy to me,
For I love the harvest they yield;
And the fairest sight I ever see
Is the crimson battle-field
Far and wide is my charnel range,
And rich carousal I keep;
Till back I come to my gibbet home,
To be merrily rocked to sleep.
When the world shall be spread with tombless dead,
And darkness shroud all below;
What triumph and glee to the last will be,
For the sateless Carrion Crow!




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