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Crow Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Cunning Old Crow by Anonymous
  2. The Crow by John Burroughs
  3. The Crow by Frank Bolles
  4. The Crow by William Canton
  5. The Jackdaw by William Cowper
  6. Tweedledum and Tweedledee by Anonymous

Poems About Crows

  1. The Cunning Old Crow

    by Anonymous

    On the limb of an oak sat a cunning old crow,
    And chatted away with glee,
    As he saw the old farmer go out to sow,
    And he cried, "It's all for me!

    "Look, look, how he scatters his seeds around;
    How wonderfully kind to the poor!
    If he'd empty it down in a pile on the ground,
    I could find it much better, I'm sure!

    "I've learned all the tricks of this wonderful man,
    Who has such regard for the crow
    That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan,
    And covers his corn in a row.

    "He must have a very great fancy for me;
    He tries to entrap me enough,
    But I measure his distance as well as he,
    And when he comes near, I'm off."

  2. The Crow

    I like thy self-complacent air,
    I like thy ways so free from care,

    – John Burroughs
    The Crow
    by John Burroughs

    My friend and neighbor through the year,
    Self-appointed overseer

    Of my crops of fruit and grain,
    Of my woods and furrowed plain,

    Claim thy tithings right and left,
    I shall never call it theft.

    Nature wisely made the law,
    And I fail to find a flaw

    In thy title to the earth,
    And all It holds of any worth.

    I like thy self-complacent air,
    I like thy ways so free from care,

    Thy landlord stroll about my fields,
    Quickly noting what each yields;

    Thy courtly mien and bearing bold,
    As if thy claim were bought with gold;

    Thy floating shape against the sky,
    When days are calm and clouds are high;

    Thy thrifty flight ere rise of sun,
    Thy homing clans when day is done.

    Hues protective are not thine,
    So sleek thy coat each quill doth shine.

    Diamond black to end of toe,
    Thy counter point the crystal snow.

    Never plaintive nor appealing,
    Quite at home when thou art stealing,

    Always groomed to tip of feather,
    Calm and trim in every weather,

    Morn till night my woods policing,
    Every sound thy watch increasing.

    Hawk and owl in treetop hiding
    Feel the shame of thy deriding.

    Naught escapes thy observation,
    None but dread thy accusation.

    Hunters, prowlers, woodland lovers
    Vainly seek the leafy covers.

    Noisy, scheming, and predacious,
    With demeanor almost gracious,

    Dowered with leisure, void of hurry,
    Void of fuss and void of worry,

    Friendly bandit, Robin Hood,
    Judge and jury of the wood,

    Or Captain Kidd of sable quill,
    Hiding treasures in the hill,

    Nature made thee for each season,
    Gave thee wit for ample reason,

    Good crow wit that's always burnished
    Like the coat her care has furnished.

    May thy numbers ne'er diminish!
    I'll befriend thee till life's finish.

    May I never cease to meet thee!
    May I never have to eat thee!

    And mayest thou never have to fare so
    That thou playest the part of scarecrow!

  3. The Crow

    by Frank Bolles

    Then it is a distant cawing,
    Growing louder—coming nearer,
    Tells of crows returning inland
    From their winter on the marshes.

    Iridescent is their plumage,
    Loud their voices, bold their clamor,
    In the pools and shallows wading;
    Or in overflowing meadows
    Searching for the waste of winter—
    Scraps and berries freed by thawing.
    Weird their notes, and hoarse their croaking;
    Silent only when the night comes.

  4. The Crow

    by William Canton

    With rakish eye and plenished crop,
    Oblivious of the farmer's gun,
    Upon the naked ash-tree top
    The Crow sits basking in the sun.

    An old ungodly rogue, I wot!
    For, perched in black against the blue,
    His feathers, torn with beak and shot,
    Let woeful glints of April through.

    The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed,
    The daisies sparkle underneath,
    And chestnut-trees on either side
    Have opened every ruddy sheath.

    But doubtful still of frost and snow,
    The ash alone stands stark and bare,
    And on its topmost twig the Crow
    Takes the glad morning's sun and air.

  5. The Jackdaw

    by William Cowper

    There is a bird, who by his coat,
    And by the hoarseness of his note,
    Might be supposed a crow;
    A great frequenter of the church,
    Where bishop-like he finds a perch,
    And dormitory too.

    Above the steeple shines a plate,
    That turns and turns, to indicate
    From what point blows the weather;
    Look up—your brains begin to swim,
    'Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,
    He chooses it the rather.

    Fond of the speculative height,
    Thither he wings his airy flight,
    And thence securely sees
    The bustle and the raree-show,
    That occupy mankind below,
    Secure and at his ease.

    You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
    On future broken bones and bruises,
    If he should chance to fall.
    No: not a single thought like that
    Employs his philosophic pate,
    Or troubles it at all.

    He sees that this great roundabout,
    The world, with all its medley rout,
    Church, army, physic, law,
    Its customs, and its businesses
    Is no concern at all of his,
    And says—what says he?—"Caw."

    Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
    Much of the vanities of men;
    And, sick of having seen 'em,
    Would cheerfully these limbs resign
    For such a pair of wings as thine,
    And such a head between 'em.

  6. Tweedledum and Tweedledee

    by Anonymous

    Tweedledum and Tweedledee
    Agreed to have a battle;
    For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
    Had spoiled his nice new rattle.

    Just then flew down a monstrous crow,
    As black as a tar-barrel;
    Which frightened both the heroes so,
    They quite forgot their quarrel.

    Over the tree-tops yonder flies a crow
    That boldly vents his unpopular caw,
    And breasts the stubborn wind to gain the shore,
    And cram his crop with what the tide brings in.

    – Henry Abbey
    A Morning Pastoral

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