The mysterious magpie

Yon magpie, on that old ash tree,
Oh, wherefore daily sitteth he?
Sedate he sits, – his tongue at rest; -
His grave demeanour prim
Might well beseem a parson, drest
In black and white like him.
Steals he an hour from care and strife
To muse, with sober’d mind,
Upon the vanities of life,
Or follies of bird-kind?
Or sits he there a penitent,
His sins, when he was young,
To mourn, perchance, – or to lament
The errors of his tongue?
Or does the spire of Shottesbrooke church
Supply some sad reflections?
At least he wears, when on that perch,
The semblance of dejection.
His silent beak doth idly rest
Upon his bosom white,
And he, it needs must be confest,
Appears chop-fallen quite.
Now all his wonted petulance
And sprightliness are fled;
He casts around a mournful glance, -
Bewaileth he the dead?
Lies there in yon churchyard interr’d
A wife, or one he wish’d
To wed,- some Pie, a peerless bird,
Whom ruthless death hath dish’d?
Ah, nought will it avail to ask
Why there he sadly sits;-
Yet mysteries, time will ne’er unmask,
Whether we would or no, will task
Our musing minds by fits.