But it has been reserved for a practical ornithologist, Mr. Wilson Flagg, to write by far the best poem on the bobolink that I have yet seen.  It is much more in the mood and spirit of the actual song than Bryant’s poem:—­

THE O’LINCOLN FAMILY

A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove;
Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love: 
There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,—­
A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle,—­
Crying, “Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bobolincon,
Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups! 
I know the saucy chap, I see his shining cap
Bobbing in the clover there—­see, see, see!”

       Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree,
       Startled by his rival’s song, quickened by his raillery. 
       Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air,
       And merrily he turns about, and warns him to beware! 
       “’T is you that would a-wooing go, down among the rushes O! 
       But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,—­wait a week,and,
          ere you marry,
       Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! 
       Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!”

       Every one’s a funny fellow; every one’s a little mellow;
       Follow, follow, follow, follow, o’er the hill and in the hollow! 
       Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly;
       They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle,
          and wheel about,—­
       With a “Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!—­
       Happy’s the wooing that’s speedily doing, that’s speedily doing,
       That’s merry and over with the bloom of the clover! 
       Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow me!”

Many persons, I presume, have admired Wordsworth’s poem on the cuckoo, without recognizing its truthfulness, or how thoroughly, in the main, the description applies to our own species.  If the poem had been written in New England or New York, it could not have suited our case better:—­

“O blithe New-comer!  I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice,
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

“While I am lying on the grass,
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

“Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

“Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

“The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

“To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.