The summer leaves have perished,

  The harvest corn is gone,

Thy head can find no shelter

  When the heavy storm comes on.

But in our dwelling waits thee

  A welcome, kind and free,

And while there’s bread among us

  We have a crumb for thee.


Thou hast sung beside our door, Robin,

  When the spring was drawing near.

Thou hast cheered our fading garden

  In the leaf-fall of the year.

From cottage roof, or ruin,

  From tree-top bare and brown;

Like a voice sent back from summer

  Thy silvery notes came down.


Through many a land and age, Robin,

  The children know thee thus:

Thou wert welcome to our fathers,

  Thou art welcome now to us.

And men of toil and travel

  In far off lands that roam,

Still greet thee as the household friend,

  The kindly bird of home.


Come in from the fierce wind, Robin,

  And from the drifting snow;

Thou shalt have rest and refuge,

  Thou shalt be free to go:

And when the evenings brighten,

  And winter slacks his reign;

Before the violet blossoms

  Thou shalt sing to us again.