174 THE HOUSE-SPARROW. 
Would have the highest place without the 
asking. 
Upon your roof the lazy scamp is basking— 
Chirping, scuffling, screaming, fighting, 
Flying and fluttering up and down 
From peep of day to evening brown. 
You may be sleeping, sick, or writing, 
And needing silence—there’s the Sparrow, 
Just at your window—and enough to harrow 
The soul of Job in its severest season. 
There, as it seemeth, for no other reason 
But to confound you;—he has got, 
Up in the leaden gutter burning hot, 
Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan, 
Loons of all ages,—grandsire, boy and man, 
Old beldame Sparrow, wenches bold, 
All met to wrangle, raffle, rant and scold. 
Send out your man! shoot! blow to powder 
The villanous company, that fiercer, louder 
Drive you distracted. There! bang! goes the gun 
And all the little lads are on the run 
To see the slaughter ;—not a bird is slain— 
There were some feathers flew—a leg was broke, 
But all went off as if it were a joke— 
In comes your man—and there they are again ! 
