The summer is coming, the butterflies know it, The rivers are ga110ping on to the sea, And thousands of birds from the far sunny south, Are now on their way to the land of the free.

They are coming to sing on the graves of the soldiers, And sing in the land where our forefathers rest, And some robin will sing on the grave of my mother, And sing when the sun glides down in the west.

The summer is coming to sink the white blossoms, That the Lord flung out of the ships in the storm.

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