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.