Part 1 — LINES TO A BRONCHITIS BIRDIE.

NOW heed the counsel of a sage, And closely keep in thy warm cage This cold and dreary winter through; See that ye shun the winds of March, No April showers thy plumes unstarch, Nor skies of May thy crest bedew. And then, perchance, sweet airs of June Will find our Birdie's throat in tune, And ye through valleys green may rove, And o'er the sunlit emerald hills, Within the cool refreshing grove, Along the marge of winding rills; And gather flowers of varied hue, 'Mid grassy beds and moss-grown banks, And on them smile, and kiss them, too, While they will sweetly blush their thanks, And drink thy health in drops of dew; Inhale the blossom-scented breeze Within thy oscillating zone, And never cough, nor even sneeze, So sound thy swan-like throat has grown. Then will thy happy voice be heard Amid sweet spring's melodious throng; No other heavenly warbling bird Will sing so joyous, oft, and long.