In the greyness of the morning perched on a silver birch tree
So beautiful to listen to and so beautiful to see.
His orange coloured breast puffed with music from him it seems to flow
And it seems like only yesterday and not eighteen years ago
That I heard his ancestor singing in the woodlet by the hill
On a morning in September when the air had a slight Autumn chill.
‘Tis not hard for to daydream nor not hard to visualize
And the sights and sounds of the past come to my ears and eyes
And each bird is distinctive by their chirping or their song
And the robin’s voice from once heard can never be got wrong.
In pleasant flights of fancy I am back there once again
In the high woodlet by the old hill in the drizzling morning rain
And the robin he is singing his song on a birch tree
He cannot be mistaken so familiar to me.