Well, winter, rang so silently
Across the moor at noon
The maids, they asked politely
If they could go coccoon

Inside their beds, for just a while
To regain their long lost rest
From mopping floors and scrubbing tile
Or at least the chilly air (at best)

The owners thought and granted so
But until they could all count
Every single maiden's toe
Beside the freezing fount

So the maids, they scurried, holding dresses
WIth pure blue eyes of hope
They dreamed of golden tresses
And young handsome men to elope

The owners stopped, with freezing breath
And looked over each young girl
Their eyes beamed cold as snowy death
An angry wind did whirl

One maiden lost from the line
Her mismatched spirit hiding
The maidens searched and began to whine
And resisted their confiding

The owners they looked hateful
At the fidgeting maidens seven
Their beady eyes ungrateful
Wishing each one went to heaven

And the little, smart young maiden
Peered from way beside the moat
All her resolve not taken
As she stifled the urge to gloat

The owners they shook their heads
And ordered the maidens' talk
To refuse the comfort of their beds
And to the kitchens walk