I am a little finch with wings of gold,

I dwell within a cage upon the wall.

I cannot fly within my narrow fold,—

I eat, and drink, and sing, and that is all.

My good old master talks to me sometimes,

But if he knows my speech I cannot tell.

He is so large he cannot sing nor fly,

But he and I are both named Bouverel.

I think perhaps he really wants to sing,

Because the busy hammer that he wields

Goes clinking light as merry bells that ring

When morris-dancers frolic in the fields,

And this is what the music seems to tell

To me, the finch, the feathered Bouverel.

"Kling-a-ling—clack!

Masters, what do ye lack?

Hammer your heart in't, and strike with a knack!

Flackety-kling—

Biff, batico, bing!

Platter, cup, candelstick, necklace or ring!

Spare not your labor, lads, make the gold sing,—

And some day perhaps ye may work for the King!"