And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near!
Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cover over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near!