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.