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ROBIN REDBREAST

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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.


Rhymes for the Young Folk

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