THE CROSSBILLS.
A Northern pinewood once we knew,
My dear, when younger by some lustres,
Where little painted crossbills flew
And pecked among the fir-cone clusters;
They hobnobbed and sidled
In coats all aflame,
While young Autumn idled,
And we did the same.
They're cutting down the wood, I hear,
To make it into war material,
And, where the crossbills came, this year
Their firs are lying most funereal;
There's steam saw-mills humming
And engines at haul,
A new Winter coming
And more trees to fall.
Ah, well, let's hope when Peace at length
Is here, and when our young plantations
In days unborn have got the strength
And pride of ancient generations,
The red birds shall show there
From tree to dark tree,
If two folk should go there
As friendly as we!
