The Yellowhammer
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hen shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen, And yellowhammers gathering the dry bentsBy the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen, Feathered with love and nature's good intents?Rude is the tent this architect invents, Rural the place, with cart ruts by dyke side.Dead grass, horse hair, and downy-headed bents Tied to dead thistles--she doth well provide,Close to a hill of ants where cowslips bloomAnd shed oer meadows far their sweet perfume. In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold,The yellowhammer, trailing grass, will comeTo fix a place and choose an early home, With yellow breast and head of solid gold.
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