Folk called him Old Man Winter, the hills of Grey were his home,
He hated the hearts of mortals, forbade them his hills to roam,
His breath was a storm of black frost, leaving aught but death in its path,
And his touch bore the chill of the boneyard,
    Boneyard, boneyard
His touch bore the chill of the boneyard, his eyes white with ageless wrath.

It was the last night of Winter, the snows of Grey fell thick.
Two faced the winds and the darkness, their horse had fallen sick.
A young lad and his mother, hardly past her maidenhead,
She and her boy fled southward,
   Southward, southward
She and her boy fled southward, from a man she could not wed.

‘I’ll flay their fair skin from them,’ the Old Man raged from his peak,
He clawed with icy fingers, until their legs grew weak.
The boy turned blue with shivers, his mother she feared for the worst,
She held the boy close to her breast,
   Her breast, her breast
She held the boy close to her breast, and endured the Old Man’s curse.

‘They’ll never see their home again,’ the Old Man seethed through his teeth
‘I’ll burn their eyes with driven snow, blind them to the embrace of death!’
The boy a’feared the white and the wind, he cried as a child alone,
She closed his eyes with her soft hands
  Soft hands, soft hands
She closed his eyes with her soft hands, until her fingers grew numb to the bone.

The Old Man’s cold knifed through their cloaks, under their furs like a snake
‘Their fingers will soon fall off from chill, a trail of bones in their wake!’
The boy’s hands were white, his fingers held fast, might never move again,
She warmed his hands in her mouth,
  Her mouth, her mouth
She warmed his hands in her mouth, as her feet held stiff with strain.

The Old Man’s scorn and fury fell, like a mountain upon them both
‘You’ll never leave my hills alive,’ he shrieked, a godling mad with wroth
The boy went limp, his lips were dark, but Mother did not break
She bundled him up with her own warmth
   Her warmth, her warmth
She bundled him up with her own warmth, through that last night of winter bleak.

Long came the dawn, and sun and gold, the Old Man forced away.
Spring came riding a gentle horse, astride the break of day.
The boy awoke, and spied the sun, and shook Mother with joy.
She lay still through his earnest pleas,
   His pleas, his pleas
She lay still through his earnest pleas, she gave all she had to the boy.