Over the brow of the hill.
Down below the woodlands sleep,
Blanketed well on the sloping steep
’Neath a snow sheet white and chill.
Sing ho, sing ho, for the galloping gale
That sweeps the summit clear,
And drives the mass of icy shale
Into the pines, whose eery wail
Fills timid souls with fear!
There’s that in the winter’s whistling wind