The Old Owl

By Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Annotations by Karen L. Kilcup

                    I.

The owl is a bird that flaps along
    With a lonely loud halloo;
He has but one unceasing song, 
                 To whit, to whit, to woo: 
In dusky light he takes his flight,
The twilight dim is the time for him,
          And when the midnight scowls,--
         'Tis then he silently prowls,
          And hunts the mice and moles.

                    II.

A lonely owl once built her nest
    In the hole of a hollow tree, 
And she with a fine young brood was blest
    As ever owl could be.
She loved her young, and as they clung
    Beneath her downy wing,
She o'er them oft, on a branch aloft,
    As they reposed below,
Would shout and sing, while the woods would ring, 
                     To whit, to whit, to woo: 

                    III.

A boy came by that hollow tree,
    With a fierce and wild halloo;
And this the birds, all startled heard,
    And answered, to whit, to woo.
As the old bird shrieked, the young ones squeaked;
        "Oh ho!" said the boy,
        In a frantic joy, 
"An owl is the bird for me,
And here are its young ones three."
    The with eager look,
    He that bird's nest took;
        While plaintive and low,
        Rose a note of wo
From the owl in its hollow tree. [1] 
                     To whit, to whit, to woo: 

                    IV.

That boy now took his victims home,
    And put them in a cage;
         And cooped up there,
          In their despair,
    They bit and scratched in rage;
They caught his fingers once or twice,
    And made him scream with pain;
          And then he vowed,
          In curses loud,
    That they should all be slain.
He tied them to a stake, and got
An iron pin, and made it hot,
    To burn out their young eyes.
"Ha, ha!" said he, "you'll not bite me,
    You'll not bite me again:"
          Then in the sky
          A wing flapped by
    That seemed to stop his breath;
'Twas the old owl, with a heavy scowl,
Lamenting her young ones' death--
                     To whit, to whit, to woo: 

                    V.

That boy grew up--became a man,
    A cruel man was he,
His heart had grown as hard as stone,
    Which none but God could see.
        One dreary night,
        In the wan moonlight,
    Beneath that hollow tree
He vengeful stood, to spill the blood
    Of a hated enemy.
With a furious blow, he laid him low,
    Then plunged his knife
    To take his life,
        Deep to its haft,
        And wildly laughed,--
"You will not again plague me."
    But yet as he knelt
    O'er that foe, he felt
A shudder that quailed all his blood's full glow;
    For oh, he heard,
    On the tree that bird,
The same old owl, o'er that murder foul,
                    Cry, whit, to whit, to woo.

                    VI.

He fled--the owl's reproaching cry
    Still ringing in his ears;
But ah, 'twas vain for the wretch to fly,
    So loaded with guilt and fears.
        He quick was caught,
        And to justice brought,
    And soon in prison lies.
        And oh, while there,
        In his deep despair,
    In lonely tears and sighs,
He thought of the iron cage!
And he thought of the cruel rage!!
And the red-hot pin, that he once thrust in,
    To burn out the young bird's eyes.

Condemned to die--'twas his destiny
    To die on that hollow tree,
        And there as he hung,
        And there as he swung
    In the night-wind to and fro,
        That vengeful bird
        Was often heard,
When scarcely a breath the forest stirred,
        In screamings high,
        All the night to cry,
                    To whit, to whit, to woo.
                    To whit, to whit, to woo.

SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH, “THE OLD OWL,” ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM 5, NO. 3 (MARCH 1843): 83-84.