A book for boys and girls, or, Country rhimes for children by J.B.

XXXI. Of the Child with the Bird at the Bush.

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My little Bird, how canst thou sit; And sing amidst so many Thorns! Let me but hold upon thee get; My Love with Honour thee adorns.

Thou art at present little worth; Five farthings none will give for thee. But prethee little Bird come forth, Thou of more value art to me.

'Tis true, it is Sun-shine to day, Tomorrow Birds will have a Storm; My pretty one, come thou away, My Bosom then shall keep thee warm.

Thou subject art to cold o'nights, When darkness is thy covering, At day's thy dangers great by Kites, How canst thou then sit there and sing?

Thy food is scarce and scanty too, 'Tis Worms and Trash which thou dost eat; Thy present state I pity do, Come, I'll provide thee better meat.

I'll feed thee with white Bread and Milk, And Suger-plumbs, if them thou crave; I'll cover thee with finest Silk, That from the cold I may thee save.

My Father's Palace shall be thine, Yea in it thou shalt sit and sing; My little Bird, if thoul't be mine, The whole year round shall be thy Spring.

I'll teach thee all the Notes at Court; Unthought of Musick thou shalt play; And all that thither do resort, Shall praise thee for it ev'ry day.

I'll keep thee safe from Cat and Cur, No manner o'harm shall come to thee; Yea, I will be thy Succourer, My Bosom shall thy Cabbin be. But lo, behold, the Bird is gone; These Charmings would not make her yield: The Child's left at the Bush alone, The Bird flies yonder o'er the Field.

Comparison.

This Child of Christ an Emblem is; The Bird to Sinners I compare: The Thorns are like those Sins of his, Which do surround him ev'ry where.

Her Songs, her Food, and Sun-shine day, An Emblem's of those foolish Toys, Which to Destruction lead the way, The fruit of worldly, empty Joys.

The Arguments this Child doth chuse, To draw to him a Bird thus wild, Shews Christ familiar Speech doth use, To make's to him be reconciled.

The Bird in that she takes her Wing, To speed her from him after all: Shews us, vain Man loves any thing, Much better than the Heav'nly Call.