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They may sing of the beautiful snow
Who dwell in a sunnier clime;
For me I would rather bestow
My songs on a theme more sublime.


I long for the beautiful Spring
When the snow, we have had half a year,
Will dissolve, and the little birds sing
With joy when the flowers appear.


In this bleak hyperborean clime
Our winters are chilly and long,
And oft prove a wearysome time
Not worthy a jubilant song.


It is all very well for the rich
Whose comforts are ever in view;
But hard upon women who stitch,
And men who have nothing to do.


Our winters are hard on the poor
And trying to both young and old,
Who have fuel and food to procure,
And suffer the terrible cold.


How oft, when the stormy winds blow
And the sky is with clouds overcast,
And facing the cold drifting snow,
We wish the dread winter was past.


Even now, while I write, the rude storm
Is kicking the clouds 'neath his feet,
While the snow-mounds in many a form
Are raising blockades on the street.


When I sing of the snow, let me lay
Be a wail that is plaintive and sad;
And when the ice passes away
O! won't I rejoice and be glad!


And when Flora visits our earth
I'll join with all nature and sing
With a heart overflowing with mirth,
A song to the beautiful Spring.