The habits of the Rook are well worthy the attention
of all who delight in the study of Natural History.
My zong is o' tha ROOKERY,
Not jitch as I a zeed
On stunted trees wi' leaves a veo,
A very veo indeed,
In thic girt place thAc _Lunnun_ cAcll;--
Tha Tower an tha Pork
HAc booA¤th a got a Rookery,
Althaw thAc han't a Lork.
I zeng not o' jitch Rookeries,
Jitch plazen, pump or banners;
Bit town-berd Rooks, vor Acll that, hAc,
I warnt ye, curious _manners_.
My zong is o' a Rookery
My Father's cot bezide,
Avaur, years Acter, I war born
'Twar long tha porish pride.
Tha elms look'd up like giants tAcll
Ther branchy yarms aspread;
An green plumes wavin wi' tha wine,
Made gAc each lofty head.
Ta drAc tha pectur out--ther war
At distance, zid between
Tha trees, a thatch'd Form-house, an geese
A cacklin on tha green.
A river, too, clooA¤se by tha trees,
Its stickle coose on slid,
Whaur yells an trout an wither fish
Mid A?tentimes be zid.
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