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About a Robin poem

 
Poor bird! 'tis strange that thou shouldst roam
So far from thy sequestered home
Shouldst leave the pure, the silent shade
For all this filth, this crash of trade.

Sweet are thy notes, yet minds intent
On life's prime object - cent per cent
Heed not thy soft, delicious strain,
Nor any notes, save notes of gain.

Sweet are thy notes, and yet I fear
Thou hast a dull and tasteless ear;
Else, why forsake the lonely glen
For this deafening din of men;
The rattling cart, the driver's bawl,
The mallet's stroke, the hawker's call,
The child's shrill scream, the windlass song
As slow the vessel moves along,
All these commixed with many a harsh sound more,
Rise to thy bleak abode in one discordant roar.

Oh! Ruddock! Couldst thou name some shore
By British trade uncursed before,
Where Afric's injured race would come,
In crowds, for half the present sum;
Or couldst thou aid the speculating throng,
The great commercial few would praise thy song.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"all this filth, this crash of trade"

 

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