Harrogate in Winter

When there's frost in the air, and there's snow on the ground,
Which is beautifully crisp to the tread,
With an air that's like wine all the country around,
And a bit of blue sky overhead.

There's a beauty in Winter we're forced to admire,
For it sets all our senses aglow,
Until even the lure of a warm ruddy fire
Fails to hold us, – and tramping we go.

Of the numerous beauty spots under this guise
Which should, certainly, never be missed,
If Harrogate wasn't awarded the prize,
It would be very high on the list.

Its beautiful houses, with mantles of white,
Form a picture that pleases the eye,
And as evening approaches, each welcoming light
From the windows, cheers each passer–by.

And the " Stray," when snow–clad, is a vision of bliss,
With its beautiful common and trees;
It's a sight that it really seems sinful to miss,
Each prospect is certain to please.

And the fair Valley Gardens, with lake–lets and brook,
Form a gorgeous and beautiful show,
With a thin, icy coating the waterways look
Just like gems, 'mid the carpet of snow.

'Tis invidious, even to mention such spots
Where there's beauty on every hand,
And Nature, one fancies, in Wintertime plots
To render them specially grand.

In such like conditions as these I describe
It is great to be breathing the air,
You draw in good health with each breath you imbibe,
And a tonic's found everywhere.

O, it's fine when it's Winter, in Harrogate, Friend,
There's a spur that gives vigour and vim,
The cold has a bite and a tang that will send
A thrill through each muscle and limb.

To Summer I take off my hat, with respect,
It's a season I love very much,
But Christmas, at Harrogate, I would select,
For the old–fashioned " Dickensy " touch.