The Squirrel

I love to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sport before my door;
There crack his nuts and hide his shells.
Or leap away to seek for more.

I love to hear the black bird’s note
Loud swelling from th’ ivied spray
And sweet to me at dewy dawn
The Red breasts wild untutor’d lay

For sure when Nature’s free born train
Approach with song and gambol near,
Some secret impulse bids them feel
The footsteps of a friend are near.

William Roscoe

Roscoe Papers, 3869; Poems for Youth by a Family Circle, 1820, p 12.