Duck Poems

Table of Contents

1. Wood-Duck

   by Isaac McLellan

   
   

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   In May-time, when the lilac-plumes
   Droop from the branch their purple blooms;
   When chestnuts clap their leafy hands,
   And every bud with joy expands;
   When in the moist, sequester'd nooks
   Of woods is heard the call of brooks,
   The wood-duck builds its downy nest
   Secure from prowling schoolboy's quest.
   

   The swampy, shallow creeks they haunt,
   Where thick woods o'er the waters slant,
   Whose interlacing branches make
   A dusky evening in the brake;
   And there their little nests are made
   In hollow mossy log decay'd,
   Or where the woodpecker had bored
   The crumbling bark to hide his hoard,
   Fast by the stream whose ripples beat
   The tree-roots of their close retreat.
   Most beauteous of all the race
   That skim the wave or soar in space,
   With plumage fairer than the rays
   The bird-of-paradise displays,
   A mottled purple gloss'd with green,
   All colors in the rainbow seen;
   No tropic bird of Indian skies
   May rival thy imperial dyes.
   Least wary of all fowl that wing
   O'er salty bay or inland spring,
   They haunt the pond whose reedy shore
   Extendeth by the farmer's door,
   Or rivulet whose waters trill
   Their melodies below the mill;
   And here the ambush'd gunner lies
   To gather in his lovely prize.
   

2. The Dusky Duck

   by Isaac McLellan

   
   

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   September nights have scarcely felt
   The first cool breath of autumn time,
   Ere high the black duck pinions fan
   Our shore-line, in their flight sublime.
   

   At first these swift fowl skim the cloud,
   And high in lessening circles sweep;
   Then slow to lonely bays descend,
   Glad to repose their wings in sleep.
   

   And so for passing weeks they haunt
   The inland marsh and muddy creek,
   Where in the shallows or the grass,
   Their pastime or their food they seek.
   

   Most shy, at midday they disport
   In ocean surf or ample bay;
   But when the evening shades pervade
   And fades the twilight of the day,
   

   Then with a soaring flight they rise
   And seek some lonely marsh remote,
   Some salt-pool in the meadow scoop'd;
   And here their quacking numbers float,
   And here the watchful fowler lies
   In ambush for the dusky prize.
   

3. Canvas-Back and Red-Heads

   by Isaac McLellan

   
   

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   In sharp November, from afar,
   From Northern river, stream, and lake,
   The flocks of noble canvas-back
   Their migratory journeys make;
   The frosty morning finds them spread
   Along the flats of Barnegat,
   Where grows the Valisneria root,
   The duck-grass with its russet thread;
   But chief where Chesapeake receives
   From Susquehanna brackish tides.
   By calm Potomac and the James,
   Feeding at will from morn till eve,
   'Mid those aquatic pastures green,
   The ribbon'd grass and bulbous root,
   Where slant the reedy edges lean.
   

   By thousands there the wild-fowl come
   To taste the rich, delicious fare;
   The red-head and the canvas-back,
   The widgeon with his plumage rare;
   The ruddy duck, the buffle-head,
   The broad-bill and Canadian goose,
   Loving o'er placid shoal or cove
   Their flapping pinions to unloose.
   Through all the day, dispers'd around,
   They swim and circle o'er the bay;
   At eve, in congregated flocks,
   To mouths of creeks they take their way;
   While some a wakeful vigil keep,
   Others at anchor float asleep.
   

   When winter early sharp sets in,
   And frozen is the river's face,
   To its salt confluence with the bay
   The flocks seek out their feeding-place.
   And where across the ice a pool
   Of open water they discern,
   The hungry flocks their flight suspend
   And toward the friendly pasture turn
   And there the lurking gunner waits
   (Amid the ice-blocks hid from sight),
   With heavy gun and deadly aim
   To thin the numbers that alight.
   

4. A Pleasant Ship

   by Emilie Poulsson

   
   

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   I saw a ship a-sailing,
   A-sailing on the sea,
   And oh! it was all laden
   With pretty things for thee!
   

   There were comfits in the cabin,
   And apples in the hold;
   The sails were made of silk,
   And the masts were made of gold.
   

   The four-and-twenty sailors
   That stood between the decks
   Were four-and-twenty white mice,
   With chains about their necks.
   

   The captain was a duck,
   With a packet on his back,
   And when the ship began to move,
   The captain said "Quack! Quack!"
   

5. Ducks

   by F. W. Harvey

   
   

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   I
   From troubles of the world
   I turn to ducks,
   Beautiful comical things
   Sleeping or curled
   Their heads beneath white wings
   By water cool,
   Or finding curious things
   To eat in various mucks
   Beneath the pool,
   Tails uppermost, or waddling
   Sailor-like on the shores
   Of ponds, or paddling
   —Left! Right!—with fanlike feet
   Which are for steady oars
   When they (white galleys) float
   Each bird a boat
   Rippling at will the sweet
   Wide waterway...
   When night is fallen you creep
   Upstairs, but drakes and dillies
   Nest with pale water-stars.
   Moonbeams and shadow bars,
   And water-lilies:
   Fearful too much to sleep
   Since they've no locks
   To click against the teeth
   Of weasel and fox.
   And warm beneath
   Are eggs of cloudy green
   Whence hungry rats and lean
   Would stealthily suck
   New life, but for the mien
   The hold ferocious mien
   Of the mother duck.
   

   II
   Yes, ducks are valiant things
   On nests of twigs and straws,
   And ducks are soothy things
   And lovely on the lake
   When that the sunlight draws
   Thereon their pictures dim
   In colours cool.
   And when beneath the pool
   They dabble, and when they swim
   And make their rippling rings,
   Oh, ducks are beautiful things!
   

   But ducks are comical things—
   As comical as you.
   Quack!
   They waddle round, they do.
   They eat all sorts of things,
   And then they quack.
   By barn and stable and stack
   They wander at their will,
   But if you go too near
   They look at you through black
   Small topaz-tinted eyes
   And wish you ill.
   Triangular and clear
   They leave their curious track
   In mud at the water's edge,
   And there amid the sedge
   And slime they gobble and peer
   Saying "Quack! quack!"
   

   III
   When God had finished the stars and whirl of coloured suns
   He turned His mind from big things to fashion little ones;
   Beautiful tiny things (like daisies) He made, and then
   He made the comical ones in case the minds of men
   Should stiffen and become
   Dull, humourless and glum,
   And so forgetful of their Maker be
   As to take even themselves—quite seriously.
   Caterpillars and cats are lively and excellent puns:
   All God's jokes are good—even the practical ones!
   And as for the duck, I think God must have smiled a bit
   Seeing those bright eyes blink on the day He fashioned it.
   And he's probably laughing still at the sound that came out of its bill!
   

   The far famed Canvas backs at once we know
   Their broad flat bodies wrapped in pencilled snow
   The burnished chestnut o'er their necks that shone
   Spread deep'ning round each breast a sable zone
   

   – Alexander Wilson
   The Foresters

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