WHY, ruthless shepherds, from my dewy spray In my lone haunt, why tear me thus away? Me, the Nymphs' wayside minstrel, whose sweet note O'er sultry hill is heard and shady grove to float? Lo! when the blackbird, thrush, and greedy host Of starlings fatten at the farmer's cost, With just revenge those ravagers pursue: But grudge not my poor leaf and sip of grassy dew. |