Their tiny torrent of flight
Sounds in the trees like rain
Flicking the leaves to the light
A scattered handful of grain
The thornbills little as bees

I hear in the blowing trees
The sudden tune of their song
Pray that the hawk not sees
Who has scanned the wind so long
For his small living food

Oh let no enemies
Drink the quick wine of blood
That leaps in their pulse of praise
Wherever a trap is set
May they slip through the mesh of the net
Nothing should do them wrong
Nothing should do them wrong

Wherever a trap is set
May they slip through the mesh of the net
Nothing should do them wrong
Nothing should do them wrong

Their tiny torrent of flight
Sounds in the trees like rain
Flicking the leaves to the light
A scattered handful of grain
The thornbills little as bees