Beyond the crooked apple-bough 
The sickle moon shines clear and thin, 
And who but robin sets him now 
To sing the new moon in ? 

The old moon knew the nightingale, 
She saw the cowslips come and go ; 
She heard the cuckoo's oft-told tale. 
The thrush sing high and low. 

Now thrush and nightingale are mute. 
Far oversea the cuckoo flies. 
No blackbird tunes his amber lute 
To see this new moon rise. 

The leaves hang heavy on the bough, 
The gold is gone from broom and whin, 
And there is none but robin now 
To sing the new moon in.