The trees are white with crystal

The brooks are frozen hard

Our little baby’s grave is white

In the quiet old churchyard

The rooks have left the old trees,

The swallows too have gone

But little robin still is here

To cheer us with his song

He still sings very sweetly

On the old green holly trees

His loud sweet notes make melody

Upon the cold sharp breeze

The holly and the fir tree

Are still dressed out in green

But here & there a speck of white

May...