With a bright sun striking crystals from the endless fields of snow.
We had finished with our breakfast of beans and bacon-fat,
When someone cried, "Look yonder, along the bluffs! What's that?"
We looked, then cheered like demons. The mail-guard, sure as fate!
A welcome sight, I tell you, on Christmas, '68!
They ploughed in through the snow-drifts across the barrack-yard,
Their fur caps rimmed with hoar-frost, their horses breathing hard.
They bore orders from headquarters, but we soldiers bade them hail
Because they'd brought us, also, our sacks of Christmas mail.
We had never hoped till springtime to have that precious freight;