My house is old, the rooms are low,
The windows high and small;
And a great fireplace, deep and wide,
Is built into the wall.
There, on a hanging chimney-hook,
My little kettle swings;
And, in the dreary winter-time,
How cheerily it sings!
My kettle will not sing to-day—
What could it sing about?
For it is empty, it is cold:
The fire is all gone out.
Go, bring to me, to fill it up,
Fresh water from the spring;
And I will build a rousing fire,
And that will make it sing!
Bring white bark from the silver birch,
And pitch-knots from the pine;
And here are shavings, long and white,
That look as ribbons fine.
The little match burns faint and blue,
But serves the fire to light;
And all around my kettle, soon,
The flames are rising bright.
Crack, crack! begins the hemlock-branch,
Snap, snap! the chestnut stick;
And up the wide old chimney now
The sparks are flying thick.
Like fire-flies on a summer night,
They go on shining wings;
And, hark! above the roaring blaze
My little kettle sings!
The robin carols in the spring;
In summer hums the bee:
But, in the dreary winter, give
The kettle’s song to me.