Is it springtime, my pert little sparrow?
I hear your voice, honest and shrill;
I see you out there on the narrow
Promenade of my bleak window-sill.
When the blues came, my spirits to harrow,
You darted in sight like an arrow,
Piping " Cheer up! Cheer up! "
So loud on your tiny, blithe quill.

I like you, my brave, saucy Briton;
You've a way that has captured my heart;
And though others your failings may twit on,
I'm a friend that will e'er take your part.
And, as much as you wish, you may sit on
My sill, which you often have lit on,
Singing " Cheer up! Cheer up! "
With a fervor much sweeter than art.

Few people, I know, praise your singing,
And I own that your harsh vocal powers
Can't compete with the robin's voice ringing
Every June in the hush morning hours;
I confess that the lark, upward winging,
And the bobolink's silver throat flinging
" Bobolink! Bobolink! "
Add a charm to the seasons of flowers.

But when winds of midwinter were blowing,
And the window-panes rattled with sleet,
And the heavens were gray, and 'twas snowing,
What became of those visitors sweet?
When we needed them most they were going;
But you stayed, your stout heart overflowing
In that " Cheer up! Cheer up! "
Which I've heard you so often repeat.

Your enemies say you're a fighter.
Ah well, what of that? So am I.
I will sing if 'tis darker or lighter —
You have taught me a gay battle-cry.
When Fortune's against me, despite her
I will wait for the days that are brighter,
Singing " Cheer up! Cheer up! "
I will fight and will sing till I die.