Crimson, purple, and brown,
Apples, apples, apples,
Here they come tumbling down.
GOOD-BY, LITTLE BIRD.
Good-by, little bird, the storm-clouds
Are gathering gray and drear;
At the chilly touch of the Frost-king
The sunbeams have paled with fear;
Wither’d, the leaves, and fallen lie;
Sadly the winds of autumn sigh;