[Editor: A poem by Louisa Lawson.]
To a Bird.
Bright little warbler of the air.
The world to thee I ween is fair,
And free thy life from shade of care,
So gaily dost thou sing.
While from thy happy throat are sent,
Those floods of song in ravishment,
Thou shamest me without intent,
Sad mourner that I be.
But birdie dear, didst thou but see
The world as it appears to me ;
Then “pretty,” “pretty,” might not be
The burden of thy song.
To one who knows not grief or care,
I doubt me not the world is fair,
And “pretty,” “pretty” everywhere —
As thou dost iterate.
But oh ! could I like thee arise,
And wing my way toward the skies ;
Not here mid human miseries
One moment would I dwell.
But once released from bonds of clay,
I’d upward soar till thy sweet lay
Did in the distance melt away
Amidst an awful space.
I’d pause not till through shining breach,
I’d catch in song that seraphs teach,
Notes only angel voices reach,
Where my loved ones are gone.
Ah, birdie ! were it thine to know,
The grief that makes my sad tears flew,
Thou couldst not sweetly warble so —
Thy little heart would break.
The Dawn (Sydney, NSW), Tuesday 15 May 1888, page 8