A scarecrow in a field of corn, A thing of tatters all forlorn, Once felt the influence of Spring And fell in love—a foolish thing, And most particularly so In his case—for he loved a crow! “Alack-a-day! it’s wrong, I know, It’s wrong for me to love a crow; An all-wise man created me To scare the crows away,” cried he; “And though the music of her ‘Caw’ Thrills through and through this heart of straw, “My passion I must put away And do my duty, come what may! Yet oh, the cruelty of fate! I fear she doth reciprocate My love, for oft at dusk I hear Her in my cornfield hovering near. “And once I dreamt—oh, vision blest! That she alighted on my breast. ’T is very, very hard, I know, But all-wise man decreed it so.” He cried and flung his arm in air, The very picture of despair. Poor Scarecrow, if he could but know! Even now his lady-love, the Crow, Sits in a branch, just out of sight, With her good husband, waiting night, To pluck from out his sleeping breast His heart of straw to line her nest.