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Ring ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring! The stooping bough above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm-tree for our king! Nay,—stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, And birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing. Oh—no! I wish I were a Robin,— A Robin, or a little Wren, everywhere to go, Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing! Well,—tell! where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? Before the day was over, Home must come the rover, For mother's kiss,—sweeter this Than any other thing. |