The Robin's my criterion of tune

The Robin's my criterion of tune
Because I grow where robins do—
But were I Cuckoo born
I'd swear by him—
The ode familiar rules the morn.
The Buttercup's my whim
For bloom—
Because we're orchard-sprung—
But were I Britain-born
I'd daisies spurn—
None but the Nut October fits
Because through dropping it
The seasons flit, I'm taught.
Without the snow's tableau
Winter were lie to me—
Because I see New Englandly.
The Queen discerns like me
Provincially.