Robin Redbreast
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away, — But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin,
Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn,
Autumn,
Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin,
Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow, — Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin,
Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
William Allingham
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