The bird That glads the night had cheer'd the listening groves with sweet complainings.

I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

The woosel cock so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill-- . . . . The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

We should concentrate on the outbreak in birds. Go upstream and contain it at the source.