/I LITTLE bird comes peeking at the 'pane. 

 His toes are cold out in the sleet and rain. 

 His coat is slight, though well it fits his form, 

 Poor little stranger in the driving storm. 



There's but a pane of glass 'twixt him and you 



And he is hungry, if you only knew, 



A bit of bread, O such a tiny mite. 



Would keep him warm all through the winter's night. 



He's pecking still to make you look his way, 

 I'm hungry, sir, his manners plainly say. 

 He only asks the crumbs upon the floor. 

 You will not turn him hungry from your door. 



When he has supped, perhaps he'll sing to you. 

 His song is slight, but it is brave and true. 

 He'd sing you more, but it is all he knows 

 And it is hard to sing with such cold toes. 



