The logs burn red; she lifts her head,
For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung.
“Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think‘ tis fled,
Sae lang, lang syne,” quo’ her mother, “I, too, was young.”
No guides there are but the North star,
And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before,
The maiden murmurs, “O sweet were yon bells afar,
And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door.”
Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go.
How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore?
Nay, I will call him, “Come in from the night and the snow,
And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more.”