The trees they're all bare, not one leaf to be seen, The meadows their beauty's all gone. And as for the leaves, they're falling from the trees And the streams they were--and the streams they were--fast bound by the frost. In the yards where the oxen all foddered with straw Send forth their breath like a stream, The sweet-looking milkmaid she finds she must go; Flakes of ice finds she--flakes of ice finds she--on her cream. The poor little small birds to the barn doors fly for food, Silent they rest on the spray, The poor innocent sheep from the Downs until the fold With their fleeces all--with their fleeces all--covered with snow. The poor little pigeon all shivering with cold, So loud the north winds do blow; The poor tiny hares search the woods all for their food Unless their footsteps their--unless their footsteps their--innocence betray. Now Christmas is gone my song is almost sung, Soon will come the springtime of the year, Come unto me the glass and let your health go round And we wish you a--and we wish you a--happy New Year. That, as I have said, is poor stuff, although it successfully carries its wintry feeling; but now try it with the music. [Illustration: Music fragment] The trees they're all bare, not one leaf to be seen; The mea - dows their beau - ty's all gone; And as for the leaves they're fall - ing from the trees, And the streams they were, . . And the streams they were fast bound by the frost. I assure you that the old man's gentle caressing voice when singing about the poor little pigeon, the poor innocent sheep, and the poor tiny hares, made the situation absolutely poignant. One other of the songs I am tempted to reproduce: this also with an innocent hare in it; a hunting song. There is something rather pretty about the willingness of the poor to sing hunting-songs--to praise a sport which exists wholly for their masters and in which they cannot participate. At the most they see the horsemen and hounds go by and hear the horn and the shouts; even the hare falls to the pack. But the English peasant is not envious. He accepts his lot quite simply and naturally, and after a long day's work in the fields and the rain, for insufficient shillings to add meat to the family table, is quite cheerfully ready to lift up his voice in praise of the sport which his roystering master has been enjoying. So let it be: I am merely recording the fact. Here is the merriest and most tuneful of the hunting-songs. [Illustration: Music fragment] Ye sports-men, rouse the morn - ing fair, The larks are sing - ing in . . the air; Go tell your sweet lover the hounds are out, Go tell your sweet lover the hounds are out; Saddle your hor-ses, your sad-dles pre-pare, A - way to the covers to look for a hare.