It's a frosty night and the North is throwing flaming lights
Folks of the quiet mansion are sleeping a sleep of midnights
Without a sound, the moon is wandering and trees are white of snow
There's snow on the roofs but the Tomte* can't fall asleep
He comes from the barn, stays on a snowdrift on front of the door
Peers as an old habit towards the sky, to moon
Looks to the forrest that woods are a shelder of the wind for the mansion
Thinking hundred of ways to solve his eternal problem
Brushing his beard he wonders, shakes his head and says out loud:
"No, I can't undestand this. This is a real problem."
As a rational little man, he puts away those thoughts
And goes for deed and work, to do his chores in nigt
He walks to the sheeps in the stall, meets them laying down
the hens are already on the perch, rooster taking the highest seat
In the doghouse, the guard wakes up and shakes its tail
The Tomte in gray is indeed familiar to it
Little man sneaks into the house, there is the host family
They really appriciate the Tomte, you could tell
He tiptoes to the children to see those little darlings
Someone else wouldn't care, but to him they are a great wonder
The forrest is quiet under the ice, all living is sleeping
The rapid is foaming alone, humming behind the woods
The Tomte, half sleeping, thinks he's hearing the stream of time
Wonders where it will carry him, where is its source
It's frosty night and the North is throwing flaming lights
Folks of the quiet mansion are sleeping until the morning
Without a sound, the moon is settling and the trees are whitened by snow
There's snow on the roofs but the Tomte can't still fall asleep