Poor Old Crow!

Poor old servant, honest crow,
Hated by the farmer so;
On the tip-top of our oaks
Calling to his sort of folks,—
Well, I like to hear his song,
Though ‘tis neither sweet nor long,
And the people say he croaks, 
With his “Caw! caw! caw!”
Like the filing of a saw!

Glossy plumes of shining black
Are the feathers on his back,
Like the jets of jewel sheen
On the mantle of a queen;
And he walks the lonely place
With a kind of stately pace,
As if master of the scene;
“Caw! caw!” —singing so
To his Lady, Mrs. Crow!

High aloft he builds his house
Of dry oven-wood and browse;
Keeps a single mate, alone, 
All his life long for his own;
And he watches from a tree,
For what danger there may be,
While his brother picks a bone!
Faithfulness on raven wings;
“Caw! caw!” is all he sings.