Along the white and winding road the sled-bells jangled keen Between the buried fences, the billowy drifts between. _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_
So crisp sang the runners, and so swift the horses sped, That the woods were all about us ere the sky grew red. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_
The bark hung ragged on the birch, the lichen on the fir, The lungwort fringed the maple, and grey moss the juniper. _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_
So still the air and chill the air the branches seemed asleep, But we broke their ancient visions as the axe bit deep. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_
With the shouts of the choppers and the barking of their blades, How rang the startled valleys and the rabbit-haunted glades! _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_
The hard wood and the soft wood, we felled them for our use; And chiefly, for its scented gum, we loved the scaly spruce; _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_
And here and there, with solemn roar, some hoary tree came down, And we heard the rolling of the years in the thunder of its crown. _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_
So, many a sled was loaded up above the stake-tops soon; And many a load was at the farm before the horn of noon; _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_
And ere we saw the sundown all yellow through the trees, The farmyard stood as thick with wood as a buckwheat patch with bees; _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_
And with the last-returning teams, and axes burnished bright, We left the woods to slumber in the frosty shadowed night. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_
And then the wide, warm kitchen, with beams across the ceiling, Thick hung with red-skinned onions, and homely herbs of healing! _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_
The dishes on the dresser-shelves were shining blue and white, And o’er the loaded table the lamps beamed bright. _Oh, the frost is on the forest, and the snow piles high!_
Then, how the ham and turkey and the apple-sauce did fly, The heights of boiled potatoes and the flats of pumpkin-pie! _Oh, merry swing the axes, and the bright chips fly!_