The crows above the woodlot

Are out on flapping wings,

And in the dooryard maple

An early robin sings;

Beside the barn the cattle

Stand warming in the sun,

And it is clear that spring is here

And sugaring has begun.

Go yoke the brindle oxen,

And get the draw-tubs out,

The maple grove shall echo

The teamster’s hearty shout;

Old Jack, the dog, is waiting

To help the work along;

At every tree a bucket,

In every heart a song.

Is there a season dearer

Than this to country folk,

When every old brown sugarhouse

Is sending up its smoke?

We’ve weathered the long winter

That sealed our northern clime,

And thank the trees, we’ve lived to see

Another sugaring-time.