The Blackbird In Poetry

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 613, 15 March 1929, Page 14

The Blackbird In Poetry

I Written for The Sun.j I HAVE RECENTLY heard it stated that the blackbird does not sing in New Zealand. One can only give one’s own testimony; and l can certainly voucb for a sound exactly like that note which is attributed to the blackbird in England, it is a little disconcerting to be told that one bas been expending one's sentimental forces on a blackbird pretender, so to speak, and tha»«a whole train of literary associations has been falsely called up. Reassurance comes from Mr Johannes Andersen, who says quite emphatically that the blackbird does sing in New Zealand. It would appear, however, that his notes have become assimilated to those of the thrush. 1 suppose It does uot greatly matter if it was a brown and not a black bird that evoked memories of Francis Ledwidge the other evening. What does matter is Francis Ledwidge. For Shelley the skylark, for Keats the nightingale, for Ledwidge the blackbird. One does not hesitate to place the Irish peasant side by side with those singers. It is possible that his poetry will not survive this century; but he was an authentic poet. At one time employed on the estate of Lord Duosany. h© went to Dublin, where be tomid employment with a chemist. But

the call of his native countryside was coo strong for him, and he tramped the miles home again. He was one of the victims of the Great War; but—it is remarkable—his poems reflect the fires of war hardly at all. I append an excerpt from “A Rainy Day in April/* in which the blackbird is celebrated. W hen the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain Like holy water falls upon the plain. *Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain. And see your harvest born.

| And sweet the little breeze of melody ; The blackbird puffs upon the budding tree, While the wild poppy lights upon the lea, And daisies ’mid the corn. The blackbird is pre-eminently a spirit of the orchard, and Mr Waiter De La Mare allows this in on© of his lyrics, which treats of a little girl and her sense of an unseen presence. “In the little green orchard’* is the refrain that runs from stanza to stanza, and it Is the blackbird that breaks into her reverie. When the last blackbird says, “What What?” And takes her way—Shh 1 I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard. W. E. Henley, as all the world knows, heard a late lark twitter; but he heard the blackbird too: 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. Whether it were blackbird or thrush that sang the other evening, there came the note which said “What? What?**, and the place seemed lik« an English orchard. C. R. ALLEN. _l>im_edin.