["The Robin and the Butterfly"]

A robin sits in a sycamore tree
Feeding her little ones [?] timorously
Dividing a worm for her little ones three
For waits
While a butterfly sits in a gravelly walk
Observing the bird with the eyes of a hawk
She is 
Waving his wings on their edges thin
Dull on the outside and gaudy within
And 
While he [?turning] all kinds of fanciful tints
Like a specimen book full of calico prints
Now, the robin is fearful to venture on high
For she dreads the attentions of beau butterfly
How provoking, she always is thrown from her track
By this troublesome calico man at her back.
'Tis true he's a rather officious beau
But this butterfly once was a worm, you know,
Who has many a friend in wormdom left
By thee and thine of their kin bereft
And he sits in his native gravelly home
To show you from whence the avenger must come
That the field of his former helpless shame
 scene glory
May become the field of his strength and fame.
There's many a ""Robin""- a ""big bellied Ben"
Who eats ""more victuals than three score men
Who spends his days in robbin' the poor
No better a Robin that this one, I'm sure.