Print This Page#00999 Print This Page
A sighing wind brings heavy snow,
Every good woodcutter knows;
It fills the road and blocks the door,
It lays and stays and waits for more.
The Jeffery boys are strong and lean,
The best damn workers you've ever seen;
They'll cut more wood than a horse can haul,
Near six chords before nightfall.
We'll get up at the break of day,
And hitch the Morgan to the sleigh;
And as we work we'll sing a rhyme,
And raise the dead of wintertime.
Deep in the woods our fuel is born,
It meets the axe to keep us warm;
We trim the branches, pile it high,
And leave it for the wind to dry.
The yellow birch, the spruce so red,
And juniper to bake good bread;
Hard maple when the flame's in doubt,
And cedar if the coals die out.
And when at night we're by the stove,
Our bellies full and our stories told;
The winds of winter might blow cold,
But none of us will feel it.
We'll get up at the break of day,
And hitch the Morgan to the sleigh;
And as we work we'll sing a rhyme,
And raise the dead of wintertime.
And as we work we'll sing a rhyme,
And raise the dead of wintertime.
