Little blackbird on the bough,
Hopping in the apple tree,
Will you please to whistle now?
I will all attention be,
For I love to hear your song,
When you warble sweet and clear.
What a little happy throng
All you merry birds appear.
Always flying overhead,
Loving in the sky to roam;
Don’t you ever earn your bread
For the little ones at home?
Master blackbird rubs his beak
On the bough and plumes his crest,
Just as though he’s going to speak;
Surely he will try his best,
“God who gave these little wings,
Swiftly through the air to skim,
Keeps us merry happy things
Always singing unto Him.
Not a bit of care have we;
Little birds don’t make a fuss:
We are full of song and glee,
God it is who cares for us!
So we spend the sunny hours,
Merry warblers of the wood;
Nestling in our leafy bowers,
Praising Him who gives us food.
Very early in the morn,
When the dew the meadow fills,
Straying worms upon the lawn
Catch we with our yellow bills;
Or upon the window ledge,
Busy buzzing flies we catch;
Or the berries from the hedge,
Stored up in the cottage thatch.
He who made the glorious sun,
Feeds the cattle and the herds:
He who made the rivers run,
Don’t forget His little birds.
Daily unto Him we look;
He supplies our simple needs:
Gives us water from the brook,
And an ample store of seeds.
Softest feathers line our nest
(Hidden from the robber’s eye),
Where our little ones can rest
Till they’re old enough to fly.
But my partner with her brood,
May be thinking I am long
Fetching tiny bits of food
For our little hungry throng,
And the happy, merry bird
Seemed to say as off he flew,
“Little ones who know His, word,
Mind and learn to trust Him too.
He who cares for little birds,
Flying in the meadows wild;
He who feeds the flocks and herds,
Careth for a little child.”
ML 01/14/1900