What came of firing a Gun.
Reading edition
Ah! there it falls, and now ’tis dead,
The shot went through its pretty head,
And broke its shining wing!
How dull and dim its closing eyes!
How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!
Poor harmless little thing!
It was a lark, and in the sky,
In mornings fine, it mounted high,
To sing a merry song:
Cutting the fresh and healthy air,
It whistled out its music there,
As light it skimmed along.
How little thought its pretty breast,
This morning, when it left its nest
Hid in the springing corn,
To find some victuals for its young,
And pipe away its morning song,
It never should return.
Those pretty wings shall never more
Its callow nestlings cover o’er,
Or bring them dainties rare:
But long their gaping beaks will cry,
And then with pinching hunger die,
All in the bitter air.
Poor little bird! if people knew
The sorrows little birds go through,
I think that even boys
Would never call it sport and fun,
To stand and fire a frightful gun,
For nothing but the noise.