How void of care yon merry Thrush,
That sings melodious in the bush;
That has no stores of wealth to keep,
No lands to plough, no corn to reap!

He never frets for worthless things,
But lives in peace, and sweetly sings;
Enjoys the present with his mate,
Unmindful of to-morrow's fate.

Rejoiced he finds his morning fare,
His dinner lies—he knows not where;
Still to the unfailing hand he chants
His grateful song, and never wants.

Of true felicity possess'd,
He glides through life supremely blest;
And for his daily meal relies
On Him whose love the world supplies.