A friend of mine, a friend to all,
We named him for his cheerful call
And the handsome little cap of coal
He wears on neighborhood patrol.
And when I’m in his woods he’ll fly
To some low branch I happen by,
Though if he were just somewhat bolder
I think he’d light upon my shoulder.
He offers me a friendly greeting
Then hops about throughout our meeting;
In his white and gray and sable
That tiny bird is always able
To raise my spirits when I’m low
And force my hurried step to slow.
And on the topic of the day
There’s so much that he comes to say!
Though what that topic really is—
Well, the topic’s only ever his;
For though I’d like to say I heard
Something from this little bird,
I’ve yet to understand a word,
And I really would agree
With those who’d shared his company
And aptly named him chickadee.
A friend of mine, a friend from youth,
But friend as well to fact and truth,
For when I’m passing by his wood
And ask if she is gone for good,
Ask if she’ll come back to me,
I hear him answer, plaintively: