When the wind is whistling
At the door and pane,
I know that winter’s coming
Down from mountains again.
It sweeps with a lofty grandeur,
A beauty that’s real, but cruel,
And fills all you can look on
In waves of drifting snow.
The work of the fall is now over,
The corn is laid up in the loft,
The cows are feeding on clover,
Dried and kept safe from the frost.
The saddle is oiled and clean,
Old Jack sleeps in his stall,
Tonight I think I’ll go down
And pitch him a load of fresh straw.
Now’s when a man need a fire,
And he needs a woman too,
A companion to inspire him
And keep his thinking true.