There is a funny fellow 
  Who goes by every day:
When sad, his voice is mellow, 
  But shrill when he is gay.

 ... 

I know he pulls the thistles
  That grow along the lane,
And pricks himself, and whistles
  To drive away the pain.

And when the snow is falling
  So fast I may not see,
I often hear him calling
  Across the fields to me.

 ... 

He sings to me, and makes me
  A happy child at night ;
He sings again, and wakes me,
  At early morning bright.