I love to see him track the street,

With his wary eye and active feet;

And I often watch him as he springs,

Circling the steeple with easy wings,

Till across the dial his shade has passed,

And the belfry edge is gained at last.

’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;

There’s a human look in its swelling breast.

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;