Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-diddle-dowe.

I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of the day, and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th' extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine; and of the truth herein This present object made probation.

The early village cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn: Your friends are up and buckle on their armor.

While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack or the barn door Stoutly struts his dames before.

Good-morrow to thy sable beak, And glossy plumage, dark and sleek, Thy crimson moon and azure eye, Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!