Because they're feeling cold and blue—
The bacon's trodden in the slush,
The baccy's wet, the stove's gone wrong—
Then, purring on the morning's hush,
We hear his cheerful little song.
The shafts of sunrise strike his wings,
Tinting them like a dragon-fly;
He bows to the ghost-moon and swings,
Flame-coloured, up the rosy sky.
He climbs, he darts, he jibes, he luffs;