Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
      Six wide mouths are open for food;
    Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
      Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: 
          Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
          Spink, spank, spink,
    This new life is likely to be
    Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
          Chee, chee, chee.

    Robert of Lincoln at length is made
      Sober with work, and silent with care,
    Off is his holiday garment laid,
      Half forgotten that merry air,
          Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
          Spink, spank, spink,
    Nobody knows but my mate and I,
    Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
          Chee, chee, chee.

    Summer wanes; the children are grown;
      Fun and frolic no more he knows;
    Robert of Lincoln’s a hum-drum drone;
      Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
          Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link,
          Spink, spank, spink,
    When you can pipe that merry old strain,
    Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
          Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

 OLD GRIMES.

“Old Grimes” is an heirloom, an antique gem.  We learn it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow.

    Old Grimes is dead; that good old man,
      We ne’er shall see him more;
    He used to wear a long, black coat,
      All buttoned down before.

    His heart was open as the day,
      His feelings all were true;
    His hair was some inclined to gray,
      He wore it in a queue.

    He lived at peace with all mankind,
      In friendship he was true;
    His coat had pocket-holes behind,
      His pantaloons were blue.

    He modest merit sought to find,
      And pay it its desert;
    He had no malice in his mind,
      No ruffles on his shirt.

    His neighbours he did not abuse,
      Was sociable and gay;
    He wore large buckles on his shoes,
      And changed them every day.

    His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
      He did not bring to view,
    Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
      As many people do.

    His worldly goods he never threw
      In trust to fortune’s chances,
    But lived (as all his brothers do)
      In easy circumstances.

    Thus undisturbed by anxious cares
      His peaceful moments ran;
    And everybody said he was
      A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT GORTON GREENE.

 SONG OF LIFE.

    A traveller on a dusty road
      Strewed acorns on the lea;
    And one took root and sprouted up,
      And grew into a tree. 
    Love sought its shade at evening-time,
      To breathe its early vows;
    And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
      To bask beneath its boughs. 
    The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
      The birds sweet music bore—­
    It stood a glory in its place,
      A blessing evermore.