  A SNOWSHOE SONGHILLOO, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! Gather, gather ye men in white; The wind blows keenly, the moon is bright, The sparkling snow lies firm and white: Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be over the hill to-night. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! Swiftly in single file we go, The city is soon left far below: Its countless lights like diamonds glow, And as we climb we hear the chime Of church bells stealing o'er the snow. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! Like winding sheet about the dead O'er hill and dale the snow is spread, And silences our hurried tread. The pines bend low, and to and fro The maples toss their boughs o'erhead. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! We laugh to scorn the angry blast, The mountain top is gained and past. Descent begins, 'tis ever fast,— A short quick run, and toil is done. We reach the welcome inn at last. Shake off, shake off the clinging snow, Unloose the shoe, the sash untie, Fling tuque and mittens lightly by. The chimney fire is blazing high, And, richly stored, the festive board Awaits the merry company. Remove the fragments of the feast! The steaming coffee, waiter, bring. Now tell the tale, the chorus sing, And let the laughter loudly ring. Here's to our host, come drink the toast, Then up! for time is on the wing. Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo! The moon is sinking out of sight, Across the sky dark clouds take flight, And dimly looms the mountain height. Tie on the shoes, no time to lose, We must be home again to-night. OUR mother is the good green earth, Our rest her bosom broad; And sure, in plenty and in dearth, Of our six feet of sod, We welcome Fate with careless mirth And dangerous paths have trod, Holding our lives of little worth And fearing none but God. Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide Above the fretted sand, Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide Swift through the silent land; Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide Rocks rise on every hand, Our path will we confess denied, Nor cowardly seek the strand. The foam may leap like frightened cloud That hears the tempest scream, The waves may fold their whitened shroud Where ghastly ledges gleam; With muscles strained and backs well bowed, And poles that breaking seem, We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud Itself our lord did deem. The broad traverse is cold and deep, And treacherous smiles it hath, And with its sickle of death doth reap With woe for aftermath; But though the wind-vexed waves may leap, Like cougars, in our path, Still forward on our way we keep, Nor heed their futile wrath. Where glitter trackless wastes of snow Beneath the northern light, On netted shoes we noiseless go, Nor heed though keen winds bite. The shaggy bears our prowess know, The white fox fears our might, And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow, With angry snarls take flight. Where forest fastnesses extend, Ne'er trod by man before, Where cries of loon and wild duck blend With some dark torrent's roar, And timid deer, unawed, descend Along the lake's still shore, We blaze the trees and onward wend To ravish nature's store. Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve These calls the echoes wake. We rise and forward fare, nor grieve Though long portage we make, Until the sky the sun-gleams leave And shadows cowl the lake; And then we rest and fancies weave For wife or sweetheart's sake. SWIFT troopers twain ride side by side Throughout life's long campaign. They make a jest of all man's pride, And oh, the havoc! As they ride, They cannot count their slain. The one is young and debonair, And laughing swings his blade. The zephyrs toss his golden hair, His eyes are blue; he is so fair He seems a masking maid. The other is a warrior grim, Dark as a midnight storm. There is no man can cope with him: We shrink and tremble in each limb Before his awful form. Yet though men fear the sombre foe More than the gold-tressed youth, The boy with every careless blow More than the trooper grim lays low, And causes earth more ruth. Keener his mocking word doth prove Than flame on winter's breath. Men bear his wounds to the realm above, For the little trooper's name is Love, His comrade's only Death. LITTLE Miss Blue Eyes opens the door, "Nobody's in," says she. Little Miss Blue Eyes has evermore Stolen my heart from me. Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, "Will you come in?" says she. "Papa'll be back in an hour or more";— Blue Eyes has seen through me. Little Miss Blue Eyes opes her heart's door, "Nobody's in," says she. (Would I might venture that threshold o'er Into its sanctity.) Little Miss Blue Eyes, if you are kind, Keep me not at the door; Into your love, from the cold and wind, Take me, dear, evermore. Little Miss Blue Eyes stands at the door, Archly smiling at me: "Papa'll be back in an hour or more, Come in and wait," says she. THE restless clock is ticking out The hours that go before the dawn, And icy moonbeams dart about The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,— The lawn that Santa Claus must cross Ere he shall reach my baby's cot,— Ah! who shall measure Bertie's loss Should Santa Claus come not! Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,— Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. What has the little man for thee, My precious babe who slumb'rest there? He brings, sweet one, a gift from me, A mother's love, a mother's care,— A mother's care that shall not wane, While hands can toil or brain can think, Until that day shall come again When thou shalt cross life's brink. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,— Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. He brings a cross, he brings a crown, And places them on either hand. Upon the cross thou must not frown, For some day thou shalt understand,— Shalt understand the preciousness That to the sombre cross pertains, And thou wilt hold the crown far less Than of the cross the pains. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,— Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. He brings the greatest gift of all In bringing thee this Christmas Day: The deathless love it doth recall Of Him who took thy sins away; And when no more thy mother's care Can guide thy footsteps, Baby Mine, Thy steps shall be secured, eachwhere, By love of One divine. Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one; I hear the neighing of the steeds,— Good Santa Claus has just begun His round of kindly deeds. |
|
