A jovial lot are they
Who fill the lumber sleigh,
And by their merriment the woodman gleans
That through the storm and cold,
With boyish hearts and bold.
The little choristers have come to haul the Christmas greens.

And quickly, too, they heap
The boughs where, soft asleep,
A subtle perfume loves to long abide;
So wild and sweet and free,
It always seems to be
Twin sister of the music that we hear at Christmas-tide.

Adown the long white road
The axeman drives his load
Of fragrant greens through puffs and drifts of snow,
Until his happy eyes
See in the twilight skies
The village spire, and well he knows who waits for him below.

Anon he halts before
The church's open door,
And pretty faces greet him with a smile.
Is it the light and heat
That make his pulses beat,
Or but a pair of laughing eyes he meets across the aisle?
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