What is Harry thinking of,
Sitting on that mossy stone?
All his brothers are at play;
Why is he so still and lone?

He is musing earnestly;
And the flutterings of the bird
And its pleading, feeble chirp
Fall upon his ear unheard.

Well may little Harry think!
From the pear-tree's withered bough
He has brought the pretty nest,
Placed within his hat-crown now.

That is why he sits alone;
And he hears a voice within,
Louder than the Robin's note,
Crying, "Harry, this is sin!"

Then put back the nest, my boy,
So you will be glad and free,
Nor will hasten by in shame,
When you pass that withered tree.