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

Despite of my endeavor
  To see him, though we've met
I must confess I never
  Have seen his features yet.

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 certainly is funny, 
  For, when I can go out,
If it is warm and sunny
  He seldom is about.

He sings to me, and makes me
  A [sleepy]1 child at night ;
He sings again, and wakes me,
  At early morning bright.