That bird, thy fancy frees from care,
With many a fear, unknown to thee,
Must rove to glean his scanty fare
From field to field, from tree to tree:
His lot, united with his kind,
Has all his little joys confin'd;
The Lover's and the Parent's ties
Alarm by turns his anxious breast;
Yet, bound by fate, by instinct wise,
He hails with songs the rising morn,
And pleas'd at evening's cool return
He sings himself to rest.