Don't kill the little birds,
That sing on bush and tree,
All thro' the summer days,
Their sweetest melody.
Don't shoot the little birds!
The earth is God's estate,
And he provideth food
For small as well as great.

Don't kill the little birds,
Their plumage wings the air,
Their trill at early morn
Makes music ev'ry-where.
What tho' the cherries fall
Half eaten from the stem?
And berries disappear,
In garden, field, and glen?

This is little Chopper Squirrel
Up in the mountains high.
He begs us for some grains of corn,
With thanks he says goodbye.

This is little Tommy Bat
Who flies around at night.
He eats the bugs and 'skeeters' too,
Which is a thing quite right.

This is little Bambi Deer
Who comes to the cabin homes.
She licks the salt we feed to her,
And on the mountain roams.

This, our little feathered friend
Who sings for us all day.
When comes the winter and the cold,
He wisely flies away.

(Deseret Songs, 1909, no. 163.)