O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.

 ... 

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the noon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her,  ...  and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.