When gadding snow makes hill-sides white,
And icicles form more and more;
When niggard Frost stands all the night,
And taps at snoring Gaffer's door;
When watch-dogs bay the vagrant wind,
And shiv'ring kine herd close in shed;
When kitchens chill, and maids unkind,
Send rustic suitors home to bed—
Then do I say the winter cold,
It seems to me, is much too bold.

When winking sparks run up the stalk,
And faggots blaze within the grate,
And, by the ingle-cheek, I talk
With shadows from the realm of fate;
When authors old, yet ever young,
Look down upon me from the walls,
And songs by spirit-lips are sung
To pleasant tunes and madrigals,—
Then do I say the winter cold
Brings back to me the joys of old.

When morn is bleak, and sunshine cool,
And trav'llers' beards with rime are grey;
When frost-nipt urchins weep in school,
And sleighs creak o'er the drifted way;
When smoke goes quick from chimney-top,
And mist flies through the open hatch;
When snow-flecks to the window hop,
And children's tongues cling to the latch,—
Then do I sigh for summer wind,
And wish the winter less unkind.

When merry bells a-jingling go,
And prancing horses beat the ground;
When youthful hearts are all aglow,
And youthful gladness rings around;
When gallants praise, and maidens blush
To hear their charms so loudly told,
Whilst echoing vale and echoing bush
Halloo their laughter, fold on fold,—
Then do I think the winter meet,
For gallants free and maidens sweet.

When great pines crack with mighty sound,
And ice doth rift with doleful moan;
When luckless wanderers are found
Quite stiff in wooded valleys lone;
When ragged mothers have no sheet
To shield their babes from winter's flaw;
When milk is frozen in the teat,
And beggars shiver in their straw,—
Then do I hate the winter's cheer,
And weep for springtime of the year.

When ancient hosts their guests do meet,
And fetch old jorums from the bin;
When viols loud and dancers' feet
In lofty halls make mickle din;
When jokes pass round, and nappy ale
Sends pleasure mounting to the brain;
When hours are filched from night so pale,
And youngsters sigh and maids are fain,—
Then do I hail the wintry breeze
Which brings such ripened joys as these.

But, when the winter chills my friend,
And steals the heart-fire from his breast;
Or woos the ruffian wind to send
One pang to rob him of his rest—
All gainless grows the Christmas cheer,
And gloomy seems the new year's light,
For joy but lives when friends are near,
And dies when they do quit the sight,—
Then, winter, do I cry, ‘Thy greed
Is great, ay, thou art cold indeed!’