The Birds Of Cirencester Poem Rhyme Scheme

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Did I ever tell you my dears the way	A
That the birds of Cisseter Cisseter eh	B
Well Ciren cester one ought to say	A
From Castra or Caster	C
As your Latin master	C
Will further explain to you some day	A
Though even the wisest err	D
And Shakespeare writes Ci cester	D
While every visitor	D
Who doesn't say Cissiter	D
Is in Ciren cester considered astray	D
	-
A hundred miles from London town	E
Where the river goes curving and broadening down	E
From tree top to spire and spire to mast	F
Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last	F
A hundred miles from that flat foreshore	D
That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more	D
There's a little cup in the Cotswold hills	G
Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills	G
Spanned by a heron's wing crossed by a stride	H
Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride	H
Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims	I
That is the source of the lordly Thames	J
Remark here again that custom contemns	J
Both Tames and Thames you must say Tems	J
But why no matter from them you can see	J
Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea	J
	-
A D Five Hundred and Fifty two	K
The Saxon invaders a terrible crew	K
Had forced the lines of the Britons through	K
And Cirencester half mud and thatch	L
Dry and crisp as a tinder match	L
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes who'd catch	L
At any device that could harry and rout	M
The folk that so boldly were holding out	M
	-
For the streets of the town as you'll see to day	D
Were twisted and curved in a curious way	D
That kept the invaders still at bay	D
And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew	K
Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew	K
By a turn in the street and a law so true	K
That even these robbers of all laws scorners	J
Knew you couldn't shoot arrows around street corners	J
	-
So they sat them down on a little knoll	N
And each man scratched his Saxon poll	N
And stared at the sky where clear and high	O
The birds of that summer went singing by	O
As if in his glee each motley jester	D
Were mocking the foes of Cirencester	D
Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet	P
Seemed all to be saying Ah you're not in it	P
	-
High o'er their heads the mavis flew	K
And the ouzel cock so black of hue	K
And the throstle with his note so true	K
You remember what Shakespeare says he knew	K
And the soaring lark that kept dropping through	K
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue	K
And the merlin seen on heraldic panes	J
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's	J
	-
And the dashing swift that would ricochet	D
From the tufts of grasses before them yet	Q
Like bold Antaeus would each time bring	R
New life from the earth barely touched by his wing	R
And the swallow and martlet that always knew	K
The straightest way home Here a Saxon churl drew	K
His breath tapped his forehead an idea had got through	K
	-
So they brought them some nets which straightway they filled	S
With the swallows and martlets the sweet birds who build	S
In the houses of man all that innocent guild	S
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch	L
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match	L
Made of resin and tow Then they let them all go	T
To be free As a child like diversion Ah no	T
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe	T
	-
For straight to each nest they flew in wild quest	U
Of their homes and their fledgelings that they loved the best	U
And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped	V
They shot o'er the curving streets high overhead	V
Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed	V
Till the town broke in flame wherever they came	W
To the Briton's red ruin the Saxon's red shame	W
	-
Yet they're all gone together To day you'll dig up	X
From mound or from barrow some arrow or cup	X
Their fame is forgotten their story is ended	Y
'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended	Y
But the birds are unchanged the ouzel cock sings	J
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings	J
And the lark chants on high as he mounts to the sky	O
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye	O
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester	D
In the eaves and the roofs of thrice built Cirencester	D

Bret Harte (francis)

The Birds Of Cirencester Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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