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Joy of Terroir:

Southern Appalachians & Piedmont

Bleak the Winds Northerly Blow

When the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen, 
And the Meadows their beauties have lost,
When all nature's disrob'd of her mantle of green,
And the streams are fast bound with the frost.

In the yard, where the cattle are fodder'd with straw,
And they send forth their breath like a stream;
And the neat looking diary maid sees she must thaw
Flakes of ice that she finds in the cream.

Heaven grant, in this season, it may be my lot,
We may live, and no hardships endure.

Virginia Gazette, 1775