Winter. a Pastoral Ballad

When the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen, And the meadows their beauty have lost; When nature's disrob'd of her mantle of green, And the streams are fast bound with the frost: While the peasant, inactive, stands shivering with cold, As bleak the winds northerly blow; And the innocent flocks run for ease to the fold, With their fleeces besprinkled with snow: In the yard when the cattle are fodder'd with straw, And they send forth their breath like a steam; And the neat looking dairy-maid sees she must thaw Flakes of ice that she finds in the cream: When the sweet country maiden, as fresh as a rose, As she carelesly trips, often slides; And the rustics laugh loud, if by falling she shows All the charms that her modesty hides: When the lads and the lasses for company join'd, In a crowd round the embers are met; Talk of fairies and witches that ride on the wind, And of ghosts, till they're all in a sweat: Heav'n grant in this season it may be my lot, With the nymph whom I love and admire, While the icicles hang from the eves of my cot, I may thither in safety retire! Where in neatness and quiet, and free from surprize, We may live, and no hardships endure; Nor feel any turbulent passions arise, But such as each other may cure.