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A Visit from St. Nicholas


His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;

It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,

With the sticks sticking under the strings.
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,

Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,

And drops to the hearth like a stone.


The little red stockings he silently fills,

Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills

Are quickly set down on the floor.
Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,

And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard

As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,

Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast

When the dear little folks are done.
Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can;

This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man,
When you find who the little man is.




'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; \
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. NICHOLAS soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter,

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Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash,
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.'
More rapid than cagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen !
On, Comet ! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitsen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His checks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,-
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk



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At the Sign of the Jolly Jack



And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod/up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.

Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863]



pore $177


From open

You merry folk, be of good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.

door you'll take no harm
By winter if your hearts are warm;
So ope the door, and hear us carol
The burthen of our Christmas moral —

Be ye merry and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
Scrape the fiddle and beat the drum,
And bury the night ere morning come.

There was an inn beside a track,
As it might be, the Jolly Jack;
Upon a night, whate'er its name,
There kept they Christmas all the same.
They sit in jovial round at table,
While Christ was lying in the stable.

They make merry and have good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
They scrape the fiddle and beat the drum,
And they'll bury the night ere morning come.


The jolly landlord stands him up,
And welcomes all to bite and sup;
He has a hearty face and red,
He knows not Who lies in his shed.
What harm, if he be honest and true,
That he may be Christ's landlord too?

So he makes merry and has good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
He scrapes his fiddle and beats his drum,
And he'll bury the night ere morning come.

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The landlord's son sits in his place,
He bows his head and says his grace;
He leads his partner to the dance,
And the light of love is in his glance.
If his thoughts are handsome as his face,
What matter if Christ be in the place?

So he makes merry and has good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;

his fiddle and beats his drum, And he'll bury the night ere morning come.

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Of all the folk that night, I ween,
Some were honest and some were mean;
If all were honest, 'twas well for all,
For Christ was sleeping in the stall.
But never may Englishmen so fare
That they at Christmas should forbear-

To make them merry and have good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year;
To scrape the fiddle and beat the drum,
And bury the night ere morning come.

Geoffrey Smith [?]

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The play is done; the curtain drops,

Slow falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task;

And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask,

A face that's anything but gay,

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The End of the Play


One word, ere yet the evening ends;

Let's close it with a parting rhyme;
And pledge a hand to all young friends,

As fits the merry Christmas-time.
On Life's wide scene you, too, have parts,

That Fate ere long shall bid you play:
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts

A kindly greeting go alway!

Good-night! -I'd say, the griefs, the joys,

Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,

Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,

Your hopes more vain, than those of men;
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say, we suffer and we strive,

Not less nor more as men than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five,

As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth

May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
The prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,

The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be He who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,

Be weeping at her darling's grave?

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