You may talk about th' nightingale, th' thrush 'r medder lark,

'R any other singin' bird that came from Noah's ark;

But of all feathered things thet fly, from turkey-buzzard down,

Give me the little sparrer, with his modest coat o' brown.

I'll admit that in th' springtime, when th' trees 're gettin' green,

When again th' robin red-breast 'nd th' bluebird first 're seen;

When the bobolink 'nd blackbird from th' southland reappear,

'Nd the crow comes back t' show us that th' spring is really here—

I'll admit that in the springtime, when the groves with music ring,

Natur' handicaps th' sparrer; he was never taught to sing;

But he sounds th' Maker's praises in his meek 'nd lowly way;

'Nd tho' other birds come back at times, he never goes away.

There's a cert'in sort o' people thet, when th' skies 're bright,

Will hang around 'nd talk about their friendship day 'nd night;

But if things cloudy up a bit 'nd fortune seems t' frown,

They're sure t' be th' first t' kick a feller when he's down.

So when the summer skies 're bright it's easy 'nough t' sing;

But when it's cold 'nd rains 'r snows it's quite a diff'rent thing.

In autumn, when th' nippin' frosts drive other birds away,

Th' sparrer is th' only one with nerve enough t' stay.

'Nd even in midwinter, when th' trees 're brown 'nd bare,

'Nd th' frosty flakes 're fallin' thro' th' bitter bitin' air,

Th' sparrer still is with us—t' cheer us when we're glum,

Fer his presence is a prophecy of better days t' come.

Th' sparrer's never idle, fer he has t' work his way;

You'll always find him hustlin' long before th' break o' day.

He's plucky, patient, cheerful, 'nd he seems t' say t' man,

"I know I'm very little, but I do th' best I can."

What more can you 'nd I do than t' always do our best?

Are we any more deservin' than th' "little British pest?"

So, when you talk of "feathered kings" you'd better save a crown

Fer the honest little sparrer, with his modest coat o' brown.