The Birds of Cirencester

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