In autumn, when th' nippin' frosts drive other birds away,
Th' sparrer is th' only one with nerve enough t' stay.
'Nd even in midwinter, when th' trees 're brown 'nd bare,
'Nd th' frosty flakes 're fallin' thro' th' bitter bitin' air,
Th' sparrer still is with us—t' cheer us when we're glum,
Fer his presence is a prophecy of better days t' come.
Th' sparrer's never idle, fer he has t' work his way;
You'll always find him hustlin' long before th' break o' day.
He's plucky, patient, cheerful, 'nd he seems t' say t' man,
"I know I'm very little, but I do th' best I can."