Eben Pearson Dorr
The Jay he sings a scanty lay,
As boy who would a fiddle play,
Strikes one bar from tuneful harp,
Then screeches into discord sharp.
Though boys to task again can turn,
The bird, alas! may never learn.
Creator placed within his throat
A song that is a single note.
Yet sweet this mellow minor chord,
Prelude, perhaps it pleased the Lord
To song reserved for other shore,
Now vaguely hinted—nothing more.
