I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau
  If birds confabulate or no;
  'Tis clear that they were always able
  To hold discourse, at least in fable;
  And e'en the child who knows no better
  Than to interpret by the letter
  A story of a cock and bull
  Must have a most uncommon skull.
  It chanced then on a winter day,
  But warm and bright and calm as May,
  The Birds conceiving a design
  To forestall sweet Saint Valentine,
  In many an orchard, copse and grove,
  Assembled on affairs of love,
  And with much twitter, and much chatter,
  Began to agitate the matter.
  At length a Bullfinch, who could boast
  More years and wisdom than the most,
  Entreated, opening wide his beak,
  A moment's liberty to speak;
  And silence publicly enjoined,
  Delivered, briefly, thus his mind—
  "My friends! Be cautious how ye treat
  The subject upon which we meet;
  I fear we shall have winter yet."
 
  A Finch, whose tongue knew no control,
  With golden wing and satin poll,
  A last year's bird who ne'er had tried
  What marriage means, thus pert replied:
  "Methinks the gentleman," quoth she,
  "Opposite in the appletree,
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