Dear birds, an easy life was yours

E’er man, the slayer, trod

Your earth from all its seas and shores

Went up your praise to God.

What though to weasel, stoat and fox

Your toll of lives you paid,

And hungry hawks might tithe your flocks

That through the woodland play’d?

Short fears were yours and sudden death,

Long life and boundless room;

No cities choked you with their breath,

Or scared you with their gloom.

Pure streams and quiet vales you had;

No snare nor line nor gun

Made war against your legions glad

That wanton’d in the sun.

Hope on, and some day you shall see,

When these ill days have end,

That man the slayer—who but he?—

Is changed to man, the friend.

—Henry Johnstone.