  B Birds are in the woodland, buds are on the tree, Merry spring is coming, ope the pane and see. Then come sportive breezes, fields with flowers are gay, In the woods we’re singing through the summer day. Fruits are ripe in autumn, leaves are sear and red, Then we glean the cornfield, thanking God for bread. Then at last comes winter, fields are cold and lorn, But there’s happy Christmas, when our Lord was born. Thus as years roll onward, merrily we sing, Thankful for the blessings all the seasons bring. Little reader
|
|
