THE SONG. 



248 



I am tlie com]>anion 

 Of tlie poor woodcutter. 



I follow liim in autumn, 



When the first chill breezes plain ; 



And I it is who warble 



The woodlands" last sweet strain. 



He is sad, and then I sing 

 Under my gilded shroud, 

 And 1 see the gleam of azure 

 Glint through the gathering cloud. 



Oh, may the song inspiring 

 Eevive Hojie's tiame again, 

 And at even guide thee homeward 

 By the magic of its sti-ain I 



But when the streams are frozen, 

 I tap at thy window-pane — 

 Oh. on the bird take pity, 

 Not a leaf, not a herb remain ! 



