Let the world rip: tighten your grip,
Make the blades glitter and shine;
At it you go, swing to each blow,
And down with the pride of the pine!
For the trees, I ween, which have long grown green
In the light of the sun and the stars,
Must bend their backs to the lumberer's axe,
Mere timber and planks and spars!
Then oh, ho, ho! for the carpet of snow!
Oh, ho, for the forest of pine!