The Sparrow

I'm a chirpy 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 his furthrest 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 quaint farm house slumbers,
   I make merry in the wheat;
Where the city's traffic lumbers,
   I am vocal in the street.
where man's economic capers
   Feathered toilers e'er to 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 fleet I flutter,
   Scorning danger, giving cheek.
I'm the friend of man for ever;
   Where his furthrest outposts lie,
Following his last endeavor
   In the wilderness, go I.