You'd be scared, Miss, I guess, by the same.
The moonlight is white on the river,
And the long, frozen miles of the plain
Seem to shrink in the north wind and shiver
And wish it was summer again.
It's different where you are, I reckon,
Leastways from the books it must be,
Where the green hills of Italy beckon
And the Tiber sings down to the sea;
Where the red roses always are climbing