The wind howl'd down the lin;
A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,
"O mother, let me in."
Up sprung the father to his feet,
And many a cross sign'd he,
With:—"Angels defend us from thee, child,
And from the like of thee."
"O cold, cold is the winter snow,
That drifts adown the steep,
But colder far this clammy shroud