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[graphic]

Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush,-
Weave him a coffin of rush,

Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
Raise him a tombstone of snow.

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I dug and dug amongst the snow,

And thought the flowers would never grow;

I dug and dug amongst the sand,

And still no green thing came to hand.

Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow
To thaw the flowers and melt the snow;
But all the winds from every land
Will rear no blossom from the sand.

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A city plum is not a plum;

A dumb-bell is no bell, though dumb;

A party rat is not a rat;

A sailor's cat is not a cat;

A soldier's frog is not a frog;
A captain's log is not a log.

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Your brother has a falcon,
Your sister has a flower;

But what is left for mannikin,
Born within an hour?

I'll nurse you on my knee, my knee,

My own little son;

I'll rock you, rock you, in my arms, My least little one.

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Hear what the mournful linnets say:
"We built our nest compact and warm,
But cruel boys came round our way
And took our summerhouse by storm.

"They crushed the eggs so neatly laid;

So now we sit with drooping wing, And watch the ruin they have made, Too late to build, too sad to sing."

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