Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggarts and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat.

Out of the fragrant heart of bloom, The bobolinks are singing; Out of the fragrant heart of bloom The apple-tree whispers to the room, "Why art thou but a nest of gloom While the bobolinks are singing?"

The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight.

When Nature had made all her birds, With no more cares to think on, She gave a rippling laugh and out There flew a Bobolinkon.

One day in the bluest of summer weather, Sketching under a whispering oak, I heard five bobolinks laughing together, Over some ornithological joke.