We had an ice storm today, and my city hasn't been this silent since last January 1st. The sky is gray and winter is getting serious. So here are the lyrics to a traditional song I heard Martin Wyndham Read sing. The tune is a plaintive little thing, like a slow air but not really worth working out, so make up your own.

The hills are clad in purple, and the trees are clad in gold
The autumn wind is sighing for a beauty growing old.
The gray grouse in the heather and the wild deer in the glen
are longing for the summer, when they'll see their joy again.

The merry, laughing summer, with its mantle cloak of green
The trees and all the flowers, such a beauty to be seen!
But autumn, gentle autumn, with its quiet eyes of gray
enwrapped me in the twilight, and stole my joy away.

A friend of mine who is no stranger to depression thought that this was written by a person suffering from Seasonal Affect Disorder, in which a person becomes depressed in winter. I think it helps explain why Scotland's chief export is Scots.

BTW, to avoid kicking off another debate, there is no hyphen in "Wyndham Read" on this CD.