Classic Poem

A Fable

Some Birds, (it is no News to tell)
Can sing, and in their Songs excel,
Then, need we any Wonder make,
If, sometimes, we should hear them speak?
The Mock Bird , on a Time, 'tis said,
Thus the sweet Red Bird did upbraid:
" Ah, simple Bird! With one poor Note!
One, and no more! to swell thy Throat;
One, and no more! canst thou repeat.
To charm the Woods, or chear thy Mate.
One, and no more! poor Bird, whilst I
Abound in sweet Variety.
Nor is't thy Voice, thy Voice alone,
Thou Simpleton! that I bemoan,
Methinks, your Colour looks as mean,
All of one Hue! all red, in grain!
Your Topping's something like, 'tis true.
But that too's red! all red! poor you. "
The Red Bird heard the taunting Strain,
And answer'd, without Pride or Pain,
" Poor me! thou proud ambitious Bird,
Thyself may better claim that Word.
They're poor, who never are content,
But still t'usurp from others bent,
Poor is the Lilly that's so fair?
Or red Rose? which embalms the Air?
I wish not to grow proud and vain,
By picking Plumes of various Stain,
Nor would feign'd Song, by Rapine raise,
Content with my own native Lays.
My Voice, thou Mocker, 'tis well known,
Such as it is, — it is my own;
And let us leave it to fair Votes,
As sweet as yours, with all your Notes.
But your small Eyes can only see
The beauties in yourself that be:
And there, as little as they are,
They magnify, — and so prefer. "
The Mock Bird cry'd — " Ha! my small Eyes —
But Eyes are not to win the Prize.
The Question is of Voice and Colour,
And not whose gogle Eyes are fuller.
Hark, have you Ears? " — each Stain it try'd,
And swell'd with Musick, and with Pride.
Then would have spoke again, — but, choak'd
With Spite and Spleen — it rather croak'd,
" Ah! my Throat's hoarse " — it scarce could utter —
And yet seem'd something more to mutter.
Then, taking Flight, its Weakness found,
And flutt'ring, fell upon the Ground.
The Red Bird not insulting stood,
But wing'd and warbl'd thro' the Wood.
The Moral to be learn'd from hence,
Is pretty plain — let's have the Sense
Simplicity of Life and Heart
To love, and scorn delusive Art:
Never, thro' Spite, which swells and bloats,
T' enflame our Breasts, or strain our Throats:
To shun all foolish Ostentation;
And be contented with our Station.