The Singing Garden

The Scrub Wren

C.J. Dennis

EVEN among the tits and wrens
    And birds of scanty inches,
Small fowl of shaded forest glens,
The lesser warblers and their hens
    And little chats and finches
I hold an unassuming place,
    In lowly regions winging;
So, few remark my nimble grace
    And fewer praise my singing.

Where sunshafts pierce the denser scrub,
    And tangled shadows blacken
Green sward, I flit from shrub to shrub
To seek the appetizing grub,
    And dance amid the bracken;
Singing my little song the while
    For those who care to listen,
While high above the soft skies smile
    And gum-leaves glint and glisten.

No noisy chorister am I
    Bedecked in gaudy vesture;
On no wide venturings I fly
’Mid tree-tops towering to the sky.
    Less lordly is my gesture.
I lodge and labour with the meek
    In secret ways and scented,
And nimbly play at hide-and-seek
By ferny dale and friendly creek,
    Unfamed, but well contented.

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