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David Macbeth Moir
The birds have ceased their songs, All save the blackbird, that from yon tall ash, Mid Pinkie's greenery, from his mellow throat, In adoration of the setting sun, Chants forth his evening hymn.
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Dinah Maria Mulock used pseudonym Mrs. Craik
A slender young Blackbird built in a thorn-tree: A spruce little fellow as ever could be; His bill was so yellow, his feathers so black, So long was his tail, and so glossy his back, That good Mrs. B., who sat hatching her eggs, And only just left them to stretch her poor legs, And pick for a minute the worm she preferred, Thought there never was seen such a beautiful bird.
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Edmund C. Stedman
Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed, thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou, too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away?
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the thickets and the meadows Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa. On the summit of the lodges Sang the robin, the Opechee.
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James Montgomery
Golden Bill! Golden Bill! Lo, the peep of day; All the air is cool and still, From the elm-tree on the hill, Chant away: . . . . Let thy loud and welcome lay Pour alway Few notes but strong.
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Lord Alfred Tennyson
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
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Susan Coolidge pseudonym of Sarah Chauncey Woolsey
So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house? And a next is under way for little Mr. Wren? Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear! quiet as a mouse. These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them.
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