Never Speaking, still awake,
Pleasing most, when most I speak,
The delight of old and young,
Tho' I speak without a Tongue.
Nought but one Thing can confound me,
Many voices joining around me;
Then I fret, and rave and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
I can Bleat or I can Sing,
Like the Warblers of the Spring.
Let the Lovesick Bard complain
And I mourn the cruel Pain;
Let the happy Swain rejoice,
And I join my helping Voice.
Tho' a Lady, I am Stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out;
Then I clash and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the Din of Battle.
Much I dread the Courtier's Fate,
When his Merit's out of Date,
For I hate a silent Breath,
And a Whisper is my Death.
The Question is What am I?
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