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Title: The Partridge
Author: Eugene Field [
More Titles by Field]
AS beats the sun from mountain crest,
With "Pretty, pretty,"
Cometh the partridge from her nest.
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,--
Ah, pretty, pretty!
Ah, dear little partridge!
And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top breakfast I.
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain-side
I see and hear the dainty dear,--
Ah, pretty, pretty!
Ah, dear little partridge!
Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare,
And pretty, pretty;
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!);
And one and all, impassioned, call,
"O pretty, pretty!
O dear little partridge!"
Thy feathers they are soft and sleek,--
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck, and small thy beak,
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are.
Sweeter than dove is she I love,--
My pretty, pretty!
My dear little partridge!
When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty,
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby,
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And Echo then gives back again
Our "Pretty, pretty!"
Our "Dear little partridge!"
Admitting thee most blest of all,
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come, and round thee play,
And this is what they seem to say,--
They say and sing, each feathered thing,
"Ah, pretty, pretty!
Ah, dear little partridge!"
[The end]
Eugene Field's poem: Partridge
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