There's a nest in the hedge-row,
Half bid by the leaves,
And the sprays, white with blossom,
Bend o'er it like eaves.
God gives birds their lodging,
He gives them their food,
And they trust He will give them
Whatever is good.
Ah! when our rich blessings,
My child, we forget;
When for some little trouble
We murmur and fret;
Hear sweet voices singing
In hedges and trees:
Shall we be less thankful,
Less trustful than these?