The BULFINCH in Town.

By a Lady of Quality.

HARK to the blackbird's pleasing note:
Sweet usher of the vocal throng!
Nature directs his warbling throat,
And all that hear, admire the song.

Yon' bulfinch, with unvary'd tone,
Of cadence harsh, and accent shrill,
Has brighter plumage to attone
For want of harmony and skill.

Yet, discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimick art he flies;
On opera-pinions hoping soon
Unrival'd he shall mount the skies.

And while, to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage remote from air,
And faded plumes, is all he earns!

Go, hapless captive! still repeat
The sounds which nature never taught;
Go, listening fair!, and call them sweet,
Because you know them dearly bought.

Unenvy'd both! go hear and sing
Your study'd musick o'er and o'er;
Whilst I attend th' inviting spring,
In fields where birds unfetter'd soar.