Chanticleer

Of all the birds from East to West
—That tuneful are and dear,
I love that farmyard bird the best,
—They call him Chanticleer.

Gold plume and copper plume,
—Comb of scarlet gay;
'Tis he that scatters night and gloom,
—And whistles back the day!

He is the sun's brave herald
—That, ringing his blithe horn,
Calls round a world dew-pearled
—The heavenly airs of morn.

O clear gold, shrill and bold!
—He calls through creeping mist
The mountains from the night and cold
—To rose and amethyst.

He sets the birds to singing,
—And calls the flowers to rise;
The morning cometh, bringing
—Sweet sleep to heavy eyes.

Gold plume and silver plume,
—Comb of coral gay;
'Tis he packs off the night and gloom,
—And summons home the day!

Black fear he sends it flying,
—Black care he drives afar;
And creeping shadows sighing
—Before the morning star.

The birds of all the forest
—Have dear and pleasant cheer,
But yet I hold the rarest
—The farmyard Chanticleer.

Red cock or black cock,
—Gold cock or white,
The flower of all the feathered flock,
—He whistles back the light!
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