Classic Poem

When the frost is white on the fodder-stack,
The haws in the thorn-bush withered and black,
When the near fields flash in a diamond mail
And the far hills glimmer opaline pale,
Oh, merrily shines the morning sun
In the barn-yard's southerly corner.

When the ruts in the cart-road ring like steel
And the birds to the kitchen door come for their meal,
And the snow at the gate is lightly drifted
And over the wood-pile thinly sifted,
Oh, merrily shines the morning sun
In the barn-yard's southerly corner.

When the brimming bucket steams at the well,
And the axe on the beech-knot sings like a bell,
When the pond is loud with the skaters' calls,
And the horses stamp in the littered stalls,
Oh, merrily shines the morning sun
In the barn-yard's southerly corner.

When the hay lies loose on the wide barn-floor,
And a sharp smells puffs from the stable door,
When the pitchfork handle stings in the hand
And the stanchioned cows for the milking stand,
Oh, merrily shines the morning sun
In the barn-yard's southerly corner.

And the steers, let out for a drink and a run
Seek the warm corner one by one,
And the huddling sheep, in their dusty white,
Nose at the straw in the pleasant light,
When merrily shines the morning sun
In the barn-yard's southerly corner.