The old cider mill a-humin', 'gosh, I know
it's Fall.


I hear the Bob White whistlin' down by the
water mill,

While dressed in gorgeous colors is each
valley, knoll and hill;

The cows they are a-lowing, as they slowly
wander home,

And the hives are just a-bustin' with the
honey in the comb.


Soon be time for huskin' parties, or an apple
paring bee,

And the signs of peace and plenty are just
splendid for to see;

The flowers they are drooping, soon there
won't be none at all,

Old Jack Frost has nipped them, and by that
I know it's Fall.