A Northern pinewood once we knew,

My dear, when younger by some lustres,

Where little painted crossbills flew

And pecked among the fir-cone clusters;

They hobnobbed and sidled

In coats all aflame,

While young Autumn idled,

And we did the same.

They're cutting down the wood, I hear,

To make it into war material,

And, where the crossbills came, this year

Their firs are lying most funereal;

There's steam saw-mills humming

And engines at haul,

A new Winter coming

And more trees to fall.

Ah, well, let's hope when Peace at length

Is here, and when our young plantations

In days unborn have got the strength

And pride of ancient generations,

The red birds shall show there

From tree to dark tree,

If two folk should go there

As friendly as we!