Our picnic days are over,
The cherries are all done,
The clouds are darkening the sky,
And it’s chilly in the sun.
The strawberries are bitter now,
The wine has lost its taste,
The bread and cheese is hard and stale,
My broken heart lies with the waste.

Our picnic days are over
And the smell of new-mown hay
Is just a sad reminder
Of a sultry summer’s day
When we lay beneath a golden sun,
But the gold has turned to rust,
Those sultry summer days are gone,
My broken heart lies in the dust.