Dark woods and dreary mountains
        and marshes flat and wide,
And sorrow and desolation
        and cold on every side;
The plains and hills and woodlands
        are wrapped in a cloak of snow,
And fiercer, ever fiercer
        the winds from the Northeast blow.

At first as soft as a whisper
        they dance through the leafless trees;
Then louder grow their voices,
        as brisk and strong as a breeze.
At last they shake the heavens
        and bend the trees and roar,
Like gaunt and hoary giants
        who fight the terrible Thor.

The frightful battle is ended;
        the sturdy Lapland swain
By cold and hunger, the monsters,
        is cruelly pierced and slain.
His face is of ashen pallor;
        he’s cold to the very core.
Fire and food are forgotten;
        he sleeps and will wake no more.

The mournful mother watches
        her boy on his chilly bed.
No longer his feet on skees are fleet;
        her dauntless darling is dead.
The boy who braves a blizzard
        to get food for tbe starving fold;
Is he not a noble hero,
        is he not a warrior bold?