Go feed the birds, my brothers, go,—
They perish by the way;
The winds are keen and they are weak;
O feed them now, I pray,
And scatter broadcast on the ground
In wood and meadow there
The little crumbs of charity
With tenderness and care.

Go feed the birds, my brothers, now,
Out through the snow and sleet,
With mercy in thy heart and hand,
Strew wide the welcome meat;
They twitter as they hop along,
Poor little homeless things,
With strength near gone they scarce can fly,
Or use their puny wings.

Go feed the little feathered flocks,
They're tamed by want and frost,—
O strew the fragments ye may have,
Nor let a crumb be lost;
Go with a loving mind each morn
Till wintry days are done,
When their glad notes shall tell of praise
Beneath a summer sun.