 | Ailes d'Alouette |  |
68
DECEMBER
The
joy of the year is over,
The dead leaves fill the air;
No voice in copse or cover,
Nor one flower anywhere.
The dead leaves fill the air;
No voice in copse or cover,
Nor one flower anywhere.
Call, robin, call, from the garden wall!
Sing of the spring to be!
Call, robin, call! Tho' the red leaf fall
The red breast shines on the tree.
Sing of the spring to be!
Call, robin, call! Tho' the red leaf fall
The red breast shines on the tree.
| Ailes d'Alouette | |