THE Old, Old Year is dead, 

The snow lies on his bed, 

The new year has come merrily in, 

with a cheerful sound of bells;

The wind blows sharp and keen 

The naked boughs between, 

There are no song-birds in the woods, no flowerets in the dells.

Sing hey! Sing ho! 

As down the slide we go, 

With laugh and shout that ringeth 

out upon the frosty air;.

Sing up! Sing down! 

Oh, leave the sloppy town, 

The sports, the pastimes, and the joys, 

of country boys to share!

The air is full of snow, 

The cattle stand and low, 

Knee-deep in straw, beside the barns 

and ricks all roofed with white,

The huddled birds cry "Cheep!" 

Beside the folded sheep, 

Whose fleeces brown and dingy look, 

where all is fair and bright:

Sing hey! Sing ho! 

As down the slide we go!