’Twas a cold, rough dayAs we sped awayIn the grand old Michigan woods;And the forest flowers,’Mid the windy hours,Hid back in their wee, warm hoods.But we searched the ground,And the red drops found’Neath their shining parasols green;Two or three on a stem,Each a round, ruby gem,’Neath coverts of emerald sheen.O little, bright globes!In your wee, red robes,And hid under sweet, scented leaves,O why do you grow,Hid away till the snowIts great white coverlet weaves?But the berries cried,“We were made to hide,Till the dear, little hands shall comeAnd bear us awayFor their own sweet play,In the corner of some glad home.”
’Twas a cold, rough dayAs we sped awayIn the grand old Michigan woods;And the forest flowers,’Mid the windy hours,Hid back in their wee, warm hoods.But we searched the ground,And the red drops found’Neath their shining parasols green;Two or three on a stem,Each a round, ruby gem,’Neath coverts of emerald sheen.O little, bright globes!In your wee, red robes,And hid under sweet, scented leaves,O why do you grow,Hid away till the snowIts great white coverlet weaves?But the berries cried,“We were made to hide,Till the dear, little hands shall comeAnd bear us awayFor their own sweet play,In the corner of some glad home.”
’Twas a cold, rough dayAs we sped awayIn the grand old Michigan woods;And the forest flowers,’Mid the windy hours,Hid back in their wee, warm hoods.
’Twas a cold, rough day
As we sped away
In the grand old Michigan woods;
And the forest flowers,
’Mid the windy hours,
Hid back in their wee, warm hoods.
But we searched the ground,And the red drops found’Neath their shining parasols green;Two or three on a stem,Each a round, ruby gem,’Neath coverts of emerald sheen.
But we searched the ground,
And the red drops found
’Neath their shining parasols green;
Two or three on a stem,
Each a round, ruby gem,
’Neath coverts of emerald sheen.
O little, bright globes!In your wee, red robes,And hid under sweet, scented leaves,O why do you grow,Hid away till the snowIts great white coverlet weaves?
O little, bright globes!
In your wee, red robes,
And hid under sweet, scented leaves,
O why do you grow,
Hid away till the snow
Its great white coverlet weaves?
But the berries cried,“We were made to hide,Till the dear, little hands shall comeAnd bear us awayFor their own sweet play,In the corner of some glad home.”
But the berries cried,
“We were made to hide,
Till the dear, little hands shall come
And bear us away
For their own sweet play,
In the corner of some glad home.”
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