Cold win-ter has come,
And the cru-el winds blow—
The trees are all leaf-less and brown;
These two pret-ty rob-ins,
Oh, where shall they go
To shel-ter their lit-tle brown heads from the snow?
Just look at the flakes com-ing down.
But see, they have found a snug shel-ter at last,
And hark, how they talk, while the storm whis-tles past:
Says Pol-ly to Dick-y,
“You’re near-est the door,
And you are the gen-tle-man, too:
Just peep out and see
When the storm will be o’er;
Be-cause, if the wea-ther’s as bad as be-fore,
I think we will stay, do not you?”