Why The Robin's Breast Was Red 

The Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, climbed up the dreary hill,
And from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill;
The cruel Roman thrust him on with unrelenting hand,
Till, staggering slowly, 'mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.


A little bird that warbled near, that memorable day, 
Flitted around and strove to wrench one single thorn away;
The cruel spike impaled his breast,--and thus, 'tis sweetly said,
The Robin has his silver vest incarnadined with red. 

Selected from James Ryder Randall 
E. C. Stedman's Anthology)