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Rh  Her each bird a buffet gives— It is strange that still she lives! More she utters on the hill, Than the nightingale—at night; But in hollow tree, she still Guards her head—in the day-light! Bird of Gwyn ap Neath! too long, Her unseemly form I’ve known; Dolt of darkness! whose harsh song By the thieves is deemed their own; How I hate her luckless tone! Never shall I want a lay, Though her voice were far away. Firebrands, till the frost is past, In each ivy-bush I’ll cast!

of the world of gloom! Owlet with the dusky plume! With a song-like kitten’s cries, Less than bunch of down in size;