I'll admit that in the springtime, when the groves with music ring,
Natur' handicaps th' sparrer; he was never taught to sing;
But he sounds th' Maker's praises in his meek 'nd lowly way;
'Nd tho' other birds come back at times, he never goes away.
There's a cert'in sort o' people thet, when th' skies 're bright,
Will hang around 'nd talk about their friendship day 'nd night;
But if things cloudy up a bit 'nd fortune seems t' frown,
They're sure t' be th' first t' kick a feller when he's down.
So when the summer skies 're bright it's easy 'nough t' sing;
But when it's cold 'nd rains 'r snows it's quite a diff'rent thing.