The Singing Garden

The Sparrow

C.J. Dennis

I’M a chirpie little chappie.
    Pertly vulgar, passing vain,
Quarrelsome, yet piping, happy,
    My monotonous refrain.
Foraging by shed and stable,
    Close camp-follower of man,
Seeking crumbs from his rich table
    Impudently where I can.

On the house-tops, in the hedges,
    Following the furthest road,
I am ever at the edges
    Of the pioneer’s abode.
Lest, mayhap, he should grow lonely
    Where his venturing footsteps roam,
I am close behind, if only
    For a memory of home.

Where the quiet farm house slumbers,
    I make merry in the wheat;
Where the city’s traffic lumbers
    I am vocal in the street.
If man’s economic capers
    Feathered toilers e’er should mar
Surely I’d be selling papers:
    “Latest murder! ’Ere you are!”

I’m the gamin of the gutter,
    Full of cunning, nothing meek;
’Mid the restless feet I flutter,
    Scorning danger, giving cheek.
I’m the friend of man for ever;
    Where his furthest outposts lie,
Following his last endeavour
    In the wilderness, go I.

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