The Robin Poem by William Bell Scott

Crumbs for the robin; well he knew
The click of that old garden gate,
Among the leaves he somewhere flew,
Nor came to breakfast ever late.
From twig to twig he ventures near,
With sidelong bright dark eye he comes,
Not for the poems but the crumbs:
We take good care he need not fear.
Is that the garden gate again?
Comes the maid to gather peas?
It is the gardener, well-known swain:
Our robin likes old friends like these.
But hark! that click once more, we see
A caller feathered for the day,
He knows as well, it seems, as we
The time is come to fly away.