Of all the birds that I do know
Philip my Sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high or lie she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine.

Come in a morning merrily
When Philip hath been lately fed,
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phip
How she can chirp with cherry lip.

She never wanders far abroad,
But is at hand when I do call,
If I command she lays on lode
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all;
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.

And yet beside all this good sport
My Philip both can sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance;
And if you say but "fend cut Phip"
Lord! how the peat will turn and skip!

Her feathers are so fresh of hue
And so well provéd every day,
So lacks no oil, I warrant you,
To trim her tail both trick and gay;
And though her mouth be somewhat wide,
Her tongue is sweet and short beside.

And for the rest I dare compare
She is both tender, sweet and soft;
She never lacketh dainty fare,
But is well fed, and feedeth oft;
For if my Phip have best to eat,
I warrant you, Phip lacks no meat.

And then if that her meat be good
And such as like do love alway,
She will lay lips thereon, by rood!
And see that none be cast away;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still, "Yet, yet, yet!"

And to tell truth, he were to blame
Which had so fine a bird as she,
To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy;
He were a churl and knew no good
Would see her faint for lack of food.

Wherefore I sing, and ever shall,
To praise as I have often proved,
There is no bird amongst them all
So worthy for to be beloved.
Let others praise what bird they will,
Sweet Philip shall be my bird still.

A beggar through the world am I,
From place to place I wander by.
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,
For Christ's sweet sake and charity!

A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,
Old oak, give me,
That the world's blasts may round me blow,
And I yield gently to and fro,
While my stout-hearted trunk below
And firm-set roots unshaken be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and night
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,
That I may keep at bay
The changeful April sky of chance
And the strong tide of circumstance, —
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,
Put in this scrip of mine,
That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright,
O sweetly mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in. the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;
Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
Oh, give, to strengthen me.