The world is so restless, so hungry for change;
Its plans are like billows that o’er the sea range:
It alters its patterns, its habits and words;
And what would they do were it not for the birds!
If we don’t praise Him, and sing when we can,
There’ll be a chorus left out of His plan.
And when He looks down on the oriole’s tree,
There must go up a sweet warble from me.
’Tis all I can give Him for nest on the bough;
The song that He taught me, I’m singing it now.