The swallows, the swallows, the snowy white swallows,

Some tweeting, some twitter, some sit on their nest,

Rest soft on the speckles, on gold freckled eggs,

While some join in swooping, and dive on the rest.

The big barns, the bold barns, the blue barns of bliss

Are home to the swallows, and haunts of their song;

The eaves brightly humming, with nestlings becoming,

Soon fly with their mothers before summer’s gone.

Glance over the green fields of heather and clover,

Dance down to the meadow that borders a stream,

Then fly with companions and nest every evening,

Where white swallows mating, all live out their dream.

Come summer, some summer, the unending summer,

When twilight, till midnight, slow cools off the day,

I’ll chase her, I’ll kiss her, on parting, I’ll miss her,

When she, with all swallows, has flitted away.

My swallows, slight swallows, my gentle white swallow,

She lovingly nestles the nest of their birth,

And brightens the shadowy eaves of blue shelter,

While tenderly teaching them fly o’er the earth.

The big barns, the bold barns, their old walls of glass,

Will hum to their music and sing out their song,

Till swallows, like snow flakes, swirl off into darkness,

And leave my barns empty and blue, once they’re gone.