The Songbird
Where did she learn her needlepoint,
Was she with the talent blessed?
So patiently and skillfully
Does she mend her artful nest.
O the hours I have watched her
Toil, although without complaint—
Singing, and the sweetest tunes,
Although never tired, nor faint.
She seems happiest in Springtime,
When she’s neither sad, nor blue—
Joyful in her family chores,
And the season grand, and new.
Hear her chirp in cheerful rhythm
When there comes a cloudless sky—
For upon the softest, slightest breeze,
That bird can surely fly!
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