FLY away, little birds,

'Tis your season to go;

The winter is coming,

With cold wind and snow.


With The flowers have gone

From the meadows around,

To live in their seeds

And their roots underground.


The leaves have turned red

On the bushes and trees,

And fall from the branches

In every light breeze.


The moth lies asleep

In the bed he has spun,

And the bee stays at home

With his honeyed work done.


So now, little birds,

You must hasten away

To the South, where the sunshine

And blossoms will stay.


But return with the spring,

When the weather is fair,

And sing your sweet songs

In the warm, pleasant air.




M. E. N. Hatheway.