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No Sower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,
To t t back her plusnes

ive agh for sigh.

I not have the, thou lone one!

Tping on the sten;

Siber the lovely arc sleeping,

Ge, sleep thot with them. Thus kindly I scatter

They lewes n'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

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Gooɑ -bye, good-bye to Summer'
For Summer 's neatly done:
The garden smiling faintly

Cool brees in the st

her thrushes now are silent.

Our swallows own away.-

1. Rob's here in coat of brown, at seadet brest-knot gay.

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Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,

The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian princes,

But soon they 'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough;

It 's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
"T will 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 wheatstack 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.

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