When others die with cold.

Our maidens they are fond and free,
And lasting are their charms;
Brown as the berry on the tree,
No sun their beauty harms:
Their beauties are no garden blooms,
That fade before they flower;
Unshelter'd where the tempest comes,
They smile in sun and shower.

And they are wild as the woodland hare,
That feeds on the evening lea;
And what care we for ladies fair,
Since ours are fond and free?
False hearts hide in a lily skin,
But ours are coarse and fond;
No parson's fetters link us in,--
Our love's a stronger bond.

Tho' wild woods are our house and home,
'T is a home of liberty;
Free as the Summer clouds we roam,
And merry boys we be.
We dance and sing the year along,
And loud our fiddles play;
And no day goes without its song,
While every month is May.

The hare that haunts the fallow ground,