I’m a poor little bird, but I’m hungry and cold,
And only when snow’s on the ground,
Or frost makes it hard to get water or food,
At your door, as a beggar, I’m found.
I see through the window your breakfast laid out,
And you cut such nice pieces of bread;
I don’t ask you for that, for of course it’s your own,
But only the crumbs that are shed.
If you think for a minute, I’m sure you’ll confess
That if these little morsels you spare,
It would fill all the crops of a dozen of us,
And give us a plentiful fare.
It is only in winter we ask you to think
Of beings so humble and small,
For the whole summer long we cheer with our song,
As we sit in the sun on your wall.
When at night, in your bed, you are covered so snug,
And keep e’en your nose from the cold,
O! think of so many with no bed at all,
Nor copper, nor silver, nor gold.
But God, who from heaven knows well what we need,
Will, I’m sure, put it into your head,
To care for the least, with a plentiful feast,
If it’s only a morsel of bread.
ML 11/28/1937