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Nursery Rhyme. DXVIII. Natural History.
By Unknown
When the snow is on the ground,
Little Robin Red-breast grieves;
For no berries can be found,
And on the trees there are no leaves.
The air is cold, the worms are hid,
For this poor bird what can be done?
We'll strew him here some crumbs of bread,
And then he'll live till the snow is gone.
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