  Whoo—whoo— The rain in the hollow The wan gray sleet will follow, The shaggy moor Will lie at the door, Heavy with mould, Dead with cold, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loÔ—yu-loÔ. The wind in the willow, The snow heaped up for a pillow, The shell of ice, Will crush in a trice, An iron mould, To have and to hold, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loÔ—yu-loÔ. Whoo—whoo— The frost in the furrow, Heat takes long to burrow, The fire on the hearth Shakes its mirth At one of God’s poor, Outside the door, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loÔ—yu-loÔ. Whoo—whoo— Weary and worry him, Gnaw him, tug him, and carry him; Dig him a pit, Shallow and fit, In the colder cold It will hold or unfold, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loÔ—yu-loÔ. Whoo—whoo— The steam from the thatches, The casement tawny in patches; Look not yet, You might never forget The ghost of breath, Or the leper Death, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loÔ—yu-loÔ.
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