Where the berries and seeds rattle down.”
I’ll now call Robin. Where are you, dear?
I know I saw you this early morn,
A crimson breast in the pine tree here.
Come, Robin, come! I’m sure you are near;
Yes, yonder you sit in that thorn.
Oh my cloak is so gay and its gems never rest,
But flutter and shine, ’neath the rays of the sun;
So I’ll draw it close to my rugged breast,
And never will say which one I love best—