The West Wind warm a’blowin was,
With cherries on his cheeks.
The North Wind cold a’blowin was,
With venom in his shrieks.
On the fields below a’bounding,
Bounced a red, rubber ball.
Wind on wind they spun a’rounding,
And for it they did brawl.
It well may be they rage there still,
Above that field so white,
But I know not what there befell,
Nor who did win the fight.
