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A Child's Own Book of Verse, Book Three by  Ada M. Skinner and Frances Gillespy Wickes

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Old Winter sad, in snow yclad,

Is making a doleful din;

But let him howl till he crack his jowl,

We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift

His hoary, haggard form,

And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand

Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard

Stream loose upon the blast,

And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime

From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death

On herb and flower and tree;

And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds

Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,—in the chimney roar,

And rattle the windowpane;

Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,

But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,

On our roof tiles, till he tire;


But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit

Before the blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;

Come, push the can about;—

From our snug fireside this Christmas-tide

We'll keep old Winter out.


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