I. When In The Wind The Vane Turns Round, And Round, And Round; And In His Kennel Whines The Hound; When All The Gable Eaves Are Bound With Icicles Of Ragged Gray, A Glinting Gray; There Is Little To Do, And Much To Say, And You Hug Your Fire And Pass The Day With A Thought Of The Springtime, Dearie. Ii. When Late At Night The Owlet Hoots, And Hoots, And Hoots; And Wild Winds Make Of Keyholes Flutes; When To The Door The Goodman'S Boots Stamp Through The Snow The Light Stains Red, The Fire-Light'S Red; There Is Nothing To Do, And All Is Said, And You Quaff Your Cider And Go To Bed With A Dream Of The Summer, Dearie. Iii. When, Nearing Dawn, The Black Cock Crows, And Crows, And Crows; And From The Barn The Milch-Cow Lows; And The Milkmaid'S Cheeks Have Each A Rose, And The Still Skies Show A Star Or Two, Or One Or Two; There Is Little To Say, And Much To Do, And The Heartier Done The Happier You, With A Song Of The Winter, Dearie.