High-piled the flashing snowdrifts lie,
And laugh to scorn the sun's dull eye,
That, glistening feebly, seems to say:
'When Summer comes you'll melt away!
You'll change your song when I grow strong:
I think so, though I may be wrong.'
The pistol flashed, and off they went
Like lightning on the steep descent.
Resistlessly down-swooping, swift
O'er the smooth face of polished drift
The racers strain with might and main;
But in the lead flies Carl the Dane.
Behind him Davy did his best,
With hopeless eye and lip compressed:
Beat by a snow-shoe length at most,
They flash and pass the winning-post.
The maiden said, 'I'll gladly wed
The youth who in this race has led.'
But where was he? Still speeding fast,
Over the frozen stream he passed.
They watched his flying form until
They lost it over Sawyers' Hill;
Nor saw it more: the people swore
The like they'd never seen before.
