University of Virginia Library

The tales of good St. Nicholas
Are known in every clime;
Told in painting, and in statues,
And in the poet's rhyme.
For centuries they've worshipped him,
In churches east and west;
Of all the saints we read about
He is beloved the best.
Because he was the saint of all
The wretched and the poor,
And never sent a little child
Unsuccored from his door.
In England's isle, alone, to-day,
Four hundred churches stand
Which bear his name, and keep it well
Remembered through the land.
And all the little children
In England know full well
This tale of good St. Nicholas,
Which I am now to tell.
The sweetest tale, I think, of all
The tales they tell of him;
I never read it but my eyes
With tears begin to swim.

There was a heathen king who roved
About with cruel bands,
And waged a fierce and wicked war
On all the Christian lands.
And once he took as captive
A little fair-haired boy,
A Christian merchant's only son,
His mother's pride and joy.
He decked him in apparel gay,
And said, “You're just the age
To serve behind my chair at meat,
A dainty Christian page.”
Oh, with a sore and aching heart
The lonely captive child
Roamed through the palace, big and grand,
And wept and never smiled.
And all the heathen jeered at him,
And called him Christian dog,
And when the king was angry
He kicked him like a log,
And spat upon his face, and said:
“Now by my beard, thy gods
Are poor to leave their worshippers
At such unequal odds.”

One day, just as the cruel king
Had sat him down to dine,
And in his jewelled cup of gold
The page was pouring wine,
The little fellow's heart ran o'er
In tears he could not stay,
For he remembered suddenly,
It was the very day
On which the yearly feast was kept
Of good St Nicholas,
And at his home that very hour
Were dancing on the grass,
With music, and with feasting, all
The children of the town.
The king looked up, and saw his tears;
His face began to frown:
“How now, thou dog! thy snivelling tears
Are running in my cup;
'Twas not with these, but with good wine,
I bade thee fill it up.
Why weeps the hound?” The child replied:
“I weep, because to-day,
In name of good St. Nicholas,
All Christian children play;
And all my kindred gather home,
From greatest unto least,
And keep to good St. Nicholas
A merry banquet feast.”
The heathen king laughed scornfully:
“If he be saint indeed,
Thy famous great St. Nicholas,
Why does he not take heed
To thee to-day, and bear thee back
To thy own native land?
Ha! well I wot, he cannot take
One slave from out my hand!”

Scarce left the boastful words his tongue
When, with astonished eyes,
The cruel king a giant form
Saw swooping from the skies.
A whirlwind shook the palace walls,
The doors flew open wide,
And lo! the good St. Nicholas
Came in with mighty stride.
Right past the guards, as they were not,
Close to the king's gold chair,
With striding steps the good Saint came,
And seizing by his hair
The frightened little page, he bore
Him, in a twinkling, high
Above the palace topmost roof,
And vanished in the sky.

Now at that very hour was spread
A banquet rich and dear,
Within the little page's home,
To which, from far and near,
The page's mourning parents called
All poor to come and pray
With them, to good St. Nicholas,
Upon his sacred day.
Thinking, perhaps, that he would heal
Their anguish and their pain,
And at poor people's prayers might give
Their child to them again.

Now what a sight was there to see,
When flying through the air,
The Saint came carrying the boy,
Still by his curly hair!
And set him on his mother's knee,
Too frightened yet to stand,
And holding still the king's gold cup
Fast in his little hand.
And what glad sounds were these to hear,
What sobs and joyful cries,
And calls for good St. Nicholas,
To come back from the skies!
But swift he soared, and only smiled,
And vanished in the blue;
Most likely he was hurrying
Some other good to do.
But I wonder if he did not stop
To take a passing look
Where still the cruel heathen king
In terror crouched and shook;
While from the palace all his guards
In coward haste had fled,
And told the people, in his chair
The king was sitting dead.

Hurrah for good St. Nicholas!
The friend of all the poor,
Who never sent a little child
Unsuccored from his door.
We do not pray to saints to-day,
But still we hold them dear,
And the stories of their holy lives
Are stories good to hear.
They are a sort of parable,
And if we ponder well,
We shall not find it hard to read
The lesson which they tell.
We do not pray to saints to-day,
Yet who knows but they hear
Our mention of them, and are glad
We hold their memory dear?
Hurrah for good St. Nicholas,
The friend of all the poor,
Who never sent a little child
Unsuccored from his door!