When robins, tits or thrushes haunt our garden,
We strew the yard and lawn with fare for all;
Yet men’s hands reach at stones, and beg no pardon,
When robber crows or magpies come to call.
The beggar with a fiddle at the station
Soon fills his hat with money — and is fed;
Yet pensioners, in silent desperation,
Must choose to freeze — or stay all day in bed.
A crow must feed its young, no less than songbirds,
While spoilt canaries warble in a cage;
We sing a song of kindness with the wrong words
While fiddler beggars hog the centre stage.