Winter Song

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!

Paul Laurence Dunbar

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