But soon they'll turn to ghosts;
The leathery 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 what will this poor robin do?
For pinching days are near.

The fireside for the cricket,
The wheat stack 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.