Ever so humble or never so grand,
Gloating o'er crumbs which many a hand
Gathers to nourish it, far and wide.
Over each crumb that it gathers up
It winningly carols those two soft words
In the dulcet notes of the sweetest of birds,
Darting its sharp beak under its wing
As it might in a ruby drinking-cup.
A delicate thing is our bird withal
And owns but a fickle appetite,