Hark to a story of Christmas Eve
In the lonely days of yore:
’Tis of the measureless, savage woods
By the great lake’s windy shore—
Of mother and child, in a firelit span,
Where the wilderness bows to the toil of man!
“Christmas is coming, and father’ll be here;
Through the woods he is coming, I know!
Over his shoulder his ax is laid,
And his beard is white with snow!