Sing ho! for the hilltop bold and bare, Where the bracing breezes blow! There’s a frosty edge on the wintry air, Exhilaration keen and rare That sets the heart aglow. Over the crest the snow lies deep, 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 That stirs dead hearts to life, And energy and health you’ll find In the breath of the breeze that’s rough yet kind, That’s keen as a surgeon’s knife. —Frank Farrington. |