Out in the bleak, cold woods he stands,
Swinging his axe with sturdy hands;
Sharply the blue-jays near him call,
Softly the snow-flakes round him fall;
Gayly he sings,
As his axe he swings,
"What care I for the ice or snow,—
Here away, there away, down you go."
Loud the winds through the tree-tops sigh;
Far the chips from his keen axe fly;
Fiercely the tree-trunks, gray and brown,
Totter, sway, and come tumbling down.
Gayly he sings,
As his axe he swings,
"What care I for the ice or snow,—
Here away, there away, down you go.
"There's time to work and time to sleep;
There's time to laugh and time to weep;
The chips must fly, the trees must fall
To feed the fire that warms us all."
Gayly he sings,
As his axe he swings,
"What care I for the ice or snow,—
Here away, there away, down you go."
