When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
To-who;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot,
When all around our shed is snow
And the pursy bond-man now doth blow,
And ten thousand cattle-feet have trod,
But still a-cold,
Thou art not for the fashion of these days,
For thy garments are so thin,
And yet I see thee fearless tread upon
The ice-brook's traditional thin skin,
As unconcernedly as if those floods
Were tempered with liquor fire,
And never freezest.