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.
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