This lad had naught except a pipe
On which he used to play;
Yet never lad did laugh so free,
Nor had a look so gay.
“Nay, bide, thou merry piper-boy!”
The kindly house-dames said.
“The roads are rough, the skies are wild,
And thou dost lack for bread.
“The hills are steep, the stones unkind—
Why wilt thou always roam?
And winter turns a barren heart
To them that have no home.”
Then would he smile and pipe awhile,
But would not ever stay.
How strange that he could be so poor,
Yet have a heart so gay!
And so the good folk shook their heads,
And they would turn and stare
To see him piping through the fields.
What was he doing there?
It fell about the blithe Yule-tide,
When winter winds were keen,
The Burgomaster’s little maid
Slipped from the house unseen;
For she had heard that in the wood
The dear snow-children run,
And play where shadows are most cold
And where there is no sun.
But lo, the evening hurried on,
And bitter sleet blew cold;
It whitened all her scarlet cloak
And flying locks of gold.
The road was hid, and she was lost,
And knew not where to go;
And still the sharp blast swept her on,
Whether she would or no.
Now who is this amid the sleet?
His face she cannot see!
He tunes his pipe against the wind,
As merry as can be.