The Fall Of The Year

The Autumn's come again,      And the clouds descend in rain,      And the leaves are fast falling in the wood;      The Summer's voice is still,      Save the clacking of the mill      And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.      There's nothing in the mead      But the river's muddy speed,      And the willow leaves all littered by its side.      Sweet voices are all still      In the vale and on the hill,      And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.      Fled is the cuckoo's note      To countries far remote,      And the nightingale is vanished from the woods;      If you search the lordship round      There is not a blossom found,      And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.      My true love's fled away      Since we walked 'mid cocks of hay,      On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year;      And she's nowhere to be seen      On the meadow or the green,      But she's coming when the happy Spring is near.      When the birds begin to sing,      And the flowers begin to spring,      And the cowslips in the meadows reappear,      When the woodland oaks are seen      In their monarchy of green,      Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here.