Along the road the magpies walk
With hands in pockets, left and right.
They tilt their heads, and stroll and talk.
In their well-fitted black and white

They look like certain gentlemen
Who seem most nonchalant and wise
Until their meal is served - and then
What clashing beaks, what greedy eyes!

But not one man that I have heard
Throws back his head in such a song
Of grace and praise - no man nor bird.
Their greed is brief; their joy is long.
For each is born with such a throat
As thanks his God with every note.