Old Winter by Palmer Cox

Old Win-ter is com-ing; a-lack, a-lack!
How i-cy and cold is he!
He’s wrapped to the heels in a snow-y white sack;
The trees he has lad-en till read-y to crack;
He whis-tles his trills with a won-der-ful knack,
For he comes from a cold coun-tree.
A fun-ny old fel-low is Win-ter, I trow,
A mer-ry old fel-low for glee:
He paints all the no-ses a beau-ti-ful hue,
He counts all our fin-gers, and pinch-es them too;
Our toes he gets hold of through stock-ing and shoe;
For a fun-ny old fel-low is he.
Old Win-ter is blow-ing his gusts a-long,
And mer-ri-ly shak-ing the tree:
From morn-ing to night he will sing us his song,
Now moan-ing and short, now bold-ly and long;
His voice it is loud, for his lungs are so strong,
And a mer-ry old fel-low is he.
Old Win-ter’s a rough old chap to some,
As rough as ev-er you’ll see.
“I with-er the flow-ers when-ev-er I come,
I qui-et the brook that went laugh-ing a-long,
I drive all the birds off to find a new home
I’m as rough as rough can be.”
A cun-ning old fel-low is Winter, they say,—
A cun-ning old fel-low is he:
He peeps in the crev-i-ces day by day,
To see how we’re pass-ing our time a-way,
And mark all our do-ing from so-ber to gay;
I’m a-fraid he is peep-ing at me!