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Cauld blows the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Up in the Morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it is winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A'day they fare but sparely;
And lan'g the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Up in the Morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it is winter fairly.
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