Winter Song
OH, who would be sad tho’ the sky be a—graying,
And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare;
For softly and merrily now there come playing,
The little white birds thro’ the winter—kissed air.
The squirrel’s enjoying the rest of the thrifty,
He munches his store in the old hollow tree;
Tho’ cold is the blast and the snow—flakes are drifty
He fears the white flock not a whit more than we.
Chorus:
Then heigho for the flying snow!
Over the whitened roads we go,
With pulses that tingle,
And sleigh—bells a—jingle
For winter’s white birds here’s a cheery heigho!
