As I split the wood for kindling,
Suddenly I heard
Someone out beyond the stackyard
Whistling like a bird.

Deep in Christmas morning slumber
Still the household lay;
And I wondered who was whistling
At the break of day —

Whistling like a bonnie blackbird
In the frosty air,
While the heavy farmlads' snoring
Rumbled down the stair.

Though I peeped out round the doorcheek,
No one could I see;
Yet I knew that early whistler
Whistled there for me.

As I bent above the hearthstone,
Still I heard him plain;
Then it seemed a bird was tapping,
Tapping at the pane.

But the window-glass was frosted,
And I could not see
Who, so early in the morning
Tapped the pane for me.

So I dropped the sticks, and, stealing
Out into the air,
Hoped to see the early whistler;
And found — no one there,

Not a sign of boy or blackbird
Waiting there for me;
Though a cock flapped on the muckheap,
Crowing mockingly

Never hearthfire kindled slowlier,
When to work I turned:
Yet a happy flame, new-kindled,
In my bosom burned —

And all day that flame new-kindled
Flourished gold and gay
To the air the early whistler
Piped at break of day.