THE SONG. 



243 



11 n'est plus de feuillee, 

 Prends pitie de 1'oiseau ! 



C'est ton ami d'automne 

 Qui revient prs de toi. 

 Le ciel, tout m'abandonne 

 Bucheron, ouvre-moi ! 



Qu'en ce temps de disette, 

 Le petit voyageur, 

 Regale d'une miette, 

 S'endorme a ta chaleur ! 



Je suis le compagnon 

 Du pauvre bucheron." 



I am the companion 

 Of the poor woodcutter. 



I follow him 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 

 Revive Hope's flame again, 

 And at even guide thee homeward 

 By the magic of its strain ! 



But when the streams are frozen, 

 I tap at thy window-pane 

 Oh. on the bird take pity, 

 Xi>t n leaf, not a herb remain! 



