Elegy VI: On the Death of His Mistress's Parrot. By Creech.Alas! poor Poll, my Indian talker, dies!Go, birds, and celebrate his obsequies;Go, birds, and beat your breasts, your faces tear,And pluck your gaudy plumes instead of hair;Let doleful tunes the frighted forest wound,And your sad notes supply the trumpet's sound.Why, Philomel, dost mourn the Thracian rage?It is enough, thy grief at last assuage;His crimson faults are now grown white with age.Now mourn this bird; the cause of all thy woeWas great, 'tis true, but it was long ago.Mourn, all ye wing'd inhabitants of air,But you, my turtle, take the greatest share;You too liv'd constant friends and free from strifeYour kindness was entire, and long as life:What Pylades to his Orestes vow'd.To thee, poor Poll, thy friendly turtle show'd,And kept his love as long as fate allow'd.But, ah! what did thy faith, thy plumes, and tail,