A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Swallows (Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian)
THE SWALLOWS.
Oh! how I love to see the swallows,
Near my window hovering,
Every year, with joyful tidings
Of the advent of the spring.
Same the nests,—and same their story,
Same the lovers gathered there,
Faithful lovers that announce us
Days of sunshine warm and fair.
When the first cold frosty weather
Strips the trees, as old leaves fall,
All the swallows met together
One another twittering call,—
'Let us fly the wind's sharp bluster,
And to warmer climates wing;
True hearts cannot live in winter,
But are always with the spring.'
If perchance a wandering swallow,
Victim of a cruel fate,
By some heartless child made captive,
Cannot see her tender mate,
You shall see her die, poor creature,
Of sorrow, love, and weariness,
While her partner pines and slackens
Far away, in grief no less.