Old Winter sad, in snow yclad,
—Is making a doleful din;
But let him howl till he crack his jowl,
—We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift
—His hoary, haggard form,
And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand
—Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard
—Stream loose upon the blast,
And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime
—From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death
—On herb and flower and tree;
And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds
—Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,—in the chimney roar,
—And rattle the window-pane;
Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,
—But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,
—On our roof-tiles, till he tire;
But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit
—Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;
—Come, push the can about;—
From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide
—We'll keep old Winter out.