Oh, who would be so sad tho’ the sky
be a-graying,
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!

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