The Coo Of The Cushat

Over the smooth lawns, broider’d with violets,

Over the hedges of snow-white thorn,

Over the billowy, pink apple-blossoms,

The musical coo of the cushat is borne.

In the still depths of the dim old plantations,

Where the sweet whispering night-wind stirs

The delicate scent from the dew-sprinkled flowers,

It sings by its nest in the tall green firs.

So peaceful, so pure, so divinely contented,

The world out of sight and its true love nigh

Their little grey wings softly folded together,-

What dreams I have set to that melody!

I listen at dawn, and I listen at even;

I hear the notes bubbling all day long

Through the woodpecker’s laugh and the chirp of the titmouse,-

Little dove, yours is the sweetest song!

‘Tis not a sad song, though it sets me a-crying-

But gladness too deep to be spoken aloud;

Nor forlorn, though ’tis sung in the loneliest places-

But only too sacred to sing to a crowd.

I envy you, though you’re so small and so humble;

I wish I were like you, you shy little dove-

So far from the world and so free from its passion,

Yet sure of your white eggs and sure of your love.

I wish I were pure from low earthly ambitions,

As quiet and calm and contented as you;

I wish my heart held such a well-spring of music,

That I were as gentle and trustful and true.

Little dove, you were worthy to carry the olive

Over the waters to Noah’s host,

To die for the mother of Christ in the Temple,

To be chosen for shrine of the Holy Ghost.

And now you have only to live and be happy,

To rear up your young ones and teach them to coo;

O sing on, and teach me the heavenly lessons,

To be faithful and worthy of God’s work too.

Teach me so humbly to take what He gives me,

The manifold duties, the great and the small;

Teach me so simply to do what He bids me,

Loving and trustful, and thankful for all

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: Written By Somebody On The Window Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.: Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To Miss Ferrier: Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Impromptu On Carron Iron Works: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq,: Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author’s. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram To Miss Jean Scott: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Bard At Inverary: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Elegy On “Stella”: The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of “The voice of Cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone’s language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.-R.B. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church: Who was looking up the text during sermon. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee: With an Impression of the Author’s Portrait. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Hey, Ca’ Thro’ – Boat song: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epitaph For Mr. William Michie: Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A Bottle And Friend: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Book-Worms: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram Addressed To An Artist: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram At Roslin Inn: by Robert Burns

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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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