Where is she now the last rose of the Summer?
Her petals by the tree that bore her lay
She withered in the first frost of the Autumn
And her great beauty perished in a day.
The crimson rosella fairest in the woodland
Has fallen victim to a bird of prey
Her crimson blood stained feathers and her crushed bones
On ground by mountain ash left to decay.
The welcome swallow has made his last journey
The ageing bird flew home this year to die
His family have migrated without him
Towards warmer climates in the north they fly.
Next year roses will bloom upon the rose tree
And rosellas in the wood will chirp and sing
And Nature will give breath of life to beauty
And welcome swallows will return in Spring.
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