Like winding sheet about the dead
O'er hill and dale the snow is spread,
And silences our hurried tread.
The pines bend low, and to and fro
The maples toss their boughs o'erhead.
Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
We laugh to scorn the angry blast,
The mountain top is gained and past.
Descent begins, 'tis ever fast,—
A short quick run, and toil is done.