THE SPARROW

Let others from the feathered brood

Which through the garden seeks its food

Pick out for a commending word

Each one his own peculiar bird;

Hail the plump tit, or fitly sing

The finch's crest and flashing wing;

Exalt the rook's black satin dress-coat,

The thrush's speckled fancy waistcoat;

Or praise the robin, meek, but sly,

For breast and tail and friendly eye —

These have their place within my heart;

The sparrow owns the larger part,

And, for no virtues, rules in it,

My reckless cheerful favourite!

Friend sparrow, let the world contemn

Your ways and make a mock of them,

And dub you, if it has a mind,

Low, quarrelsome, and unrefined;

And let it, if it will, pursue

With harsh abuse the troops of you

Who through the orchard and the field

Their busy bills in mischief wield;

Who strip the tilth and bare the tree,

And make the gardener's face to be

Expressive of the words he could,

But must not, utter, though he would

( For gardeners still, where'er they go,

Whate'er they do, in weal or woe,

Through every chance of life retain

Their ancient Puritanic strain;

Tried by the weather they control

Each day their angry human soul,

And, by the sparrow teased, may tear

Their careworn locks, but never swear ).

Let us admit — alas,' tis true —

You are not adequately few;

That half your little life is spent

In furious strife or argument;

Still, though your wickedness must harrow

All feeling souls, I love my sparrow;

Still, though I oft and gravely doubt you,

I really could not do without you.

Your pluck, your wit, your nonchalance,

Your cheerful confidence in chance,

Your darting flight, your bouts of play,

Your chirp, so sociable and gay —

These, and no beauty soft or striking,

Make up your passport to my liking;

And for your faults I'll still defend you,

My little sparrow, and befriend you.