  When the field lies clear in the moon, boy, And the wood hangs dark on the hill, When the long white way shows never a sleigh, And the sound of the bells is still, Then hurry, hurry, hurry! And bring the toboggans along; Tell mother she need not worry, Then off with a shout and a song. A-tilt on the billowy slope, boy, Like a boat that bends to the sea, With the heart a-tilt in your breast, boy, And your chin well down on your knee, Then over, over, over, As the boat skims over the main, A plunge and a swoop, a gasp and a whoop, The boat, and the bird, and the breeze, boy, Which the poet is apt to sing, Are old and slow and clumsy, I know, By us that have never a wing. Still onward, onward, onward! Till the brook joins the meadow below, And then with a shout, see us tumbling out, To plunge in the soft, deep snow. Back now by the side of the hedge, boy, Where the roses in summer blow, Where the snow lies deep o’er their winter sleep, Up, up the big hill we go. And stumbling, tumbling, stumbling, Hurrah! ’tis the top we gain! Draw breath for a minute before you begin it— Now, over, and over again! |
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