Since I Have Seen A Bird One Day, His Head Pecked More Than Half Away; That Hopped About, With But One Eye, Ready To Fight Again, And Die, Ofttimes Since Then Their Private Lives Have Spoilt That Joy Their Music Gives. So When I See This Robin Now, Like A Red Apple On The Bough, And Question Why He Sings So Strong, For Love, Or For The Love Of Song; Or Sings, Maybe, For That Sweet Rill Whose Silver Tongue Is Never Still, Ah, Now There Comes This Thought Unkind, Born Of The Knowledge In My Mind: He Sings In Triumph That Last Night He Killed His Father In A Fight; And Now He'll Take His Mother'S Blood, The Last Strong Rival For His Food.