The starling in the ivy now,
For to amuse his dear,
Mimics the dog, the cat, the cow,
Blackbird and Chanticleer.
The starling's an accomplished mime:
Between his love-making
He solaces her brooding-time
By many a madcap thing.
He is the saw, the spade, the scythe,
He rings the dinner bell;
Chuckles of laughter, small and blithe,
Of self-laudations tell.
Now by the battle-field he mocks
As though 'twere but a game,
Thunder with which the belfry rocks
And the great bursts of flame.
Till when the merriment will pall
He turns to love again,
Calling his love-sick gurgling call
Above the dying men.
Who knows what dream the starling weaves
Of boyhood, soft and clean?
A small room under golden eaves
To which the sun looks in.
The starling's talking in the thatch,
Bidding the boy arise;
And the door's opening on the latch
To show -- his mother's eyes.
