Volume 93 — A PLEA FOR THE BIRDS.

Lo! the sea-gulls slowly whirling Over all the silver sea, Where the white-toothed waves are curling, And the winds are blowing free. There's a sound of wild commotion, And the surge is stained with red; Blood incarnadines the ocean, Sweeping round old Flamborough Head. For the butchers come unheeding All the torture as they slay, Helpless birds left slowly bleeding, When the wings are reft away. There the parent bird is dying, With the crimson on her breast, While her little ones are lying Left to starve in yonder nest. What dooms all these birds to perish, What sends forth these men to kill, Who can have the hearts that cherish Such designs of doing ill? Sad the answer: English ladies Send those men, to gain each day What for matron and for maid is All the Fashion, so folks say. Feathers deck the hat and bonnet. Though the plumage seemeth fair, Punch, whene'er he looks upon it, Sees that slaughter in the air. Many a fashion gives employment Unto thousands needing bread, This, to add to your enjoyment, Means the dying and the dead. Wear the hat, then, sans the feather, English women, kind and true; Birds enjoy the summer weather And the sea as much as you. There's the riband, silk, or jewel, Fashion's whims are oft absurd; This is execrably cruel; Leave his feathers to the bird!