The starling in the ivy now,

For to amuse his dear,

Mimics the dog, the cat, the cow,

Blackbird and Chanticleer.

The starling's an accomplished mime:

Between his love-making

He solaces her brooding-time

By many a madcap thing.

He is the saw, the spade, the scythe,

He rings the dinner bell;

Chuckles of laughter, small and blithe,

Of self-laudations tell.

Now by the battle-field he mocks

As though 'twere but a game,

Thunder with which the belfry rocks

And the great bursts of flame.

Till when the merriment will pall

He turns to love again,

Calling his love-sick gurgling call

Above the dying men.

Who knows what dream the starling weaves

Of boyhood, soft and clean?

A small room under golden eaves

To which the sun looks in.

The starling's talking in the thatch,

Bidding the boy arise;

And the door's opening on the latch

To show -- his mother's eyes.