I might charm you with my song, Could you but forget my trade, Where I pipe the autumn long In some bowered wattle glade— Pipe a rollicking refrain Such as Circe might not scorn, Jovial amongst my slain Grimly dangling from the thorn. Never yet had siren sung From a falser heart than mine, Witness these grim trophies hung Round me, while a cadence fine Ripples on the balmy air To the Fall’s soft winds astir, While anew I set my snare For some feathered voyager. There’s a note of careless glee, Impish laughter in my lay; Droll duets my mate with me Improvises. We are gay Lest the silence, were we dumb, Should betray the evil mind Of hunter and of huntress come To bring destruction to our kind. Yet, tho’ grisly be my trade, Is man’s consciense clear as mine, Singing in my wattle glade Where I innocently dine? And, when autumn comes again, Haply you’ll forget it all, Lured anew by that refrain Of the singing cannibal.