Oh, who would be sad tho' the sky be a-graying,
  And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare;
For softly and merrily now there come playing,
  The little white birds thro' the winter-kissed air.

The squirrel's enjoying the rest of the thrifty,
  He munches his store in the old hollow tree;
Tho' cold is the blast and the snow-flakes are drifty
  He fears the white flock not a whit more than we.

Chorus:
Then heigho for the flying snow!
Over the whitened roads we go,
  With pulses that tingle,
  And sleigh-bells a-jingle
For winter's white birds here's a cheery heigho!