POETRY.

BIRDALONE.

(NORTH SOMERSET.)

THERE grows a tharn by Avonside,

And there my birdie built her nest.

Oh! I've a-wandered far and wide, But still that music breaks my rest.

Ne'er came a sweeter nightingale To whistle to a greener spring, In those lost hours in Avon Vale That were so light upon the wing.

Lost, lost and gone, zweet Birdalone !

The songs I loved, the nest I knew.

She made my very heart her own, And took it with her when she flew.

Far down, far down on Avonside,

When summer plimmed the mowen grass, Wi' little Phoebe Fern beside,

Droo steamen fields my feet would pass ; Till by the snowy hawthorn trees

We stayed our rustling steps for fear, While forth upon the scented breeze Rang the vurst notes, so zweet and clear. Ah ! silver clear, sweet Birdalone! The silver fluting notes we heard; And Phoebe's hand upon my own For fear I scared the tiny bird !

Sing low, sing low on Avonside, Low warble to the whispering stream!

The birds return wi' zummertide,

But not the music of my dream.

They come a-courting spring again, They pipe and whistle as they will, But I have sought one nest in vain: The bird is fled, the song is still.

For ever still, zweet Birdalone !

You only sang for her and me !

And ere your nestlin's' wings were grown The nestlin' of my heart was free.

EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.