 | A merry-go-round of song |  |
89
THE APOLOGY OF FATHER CHRISTMAS
“No doubt,” said Father Christmas, “there is virtue in this plan
Of sleeping hard throughout the year. I feel a different man!
Twelve months ago, when I had pleased uncounted girls and boys
By diving down their chimneys with a lot of various toys,
I felt as if an enemy had beaten me with thongs
And stabbed my arms and legs and chest and shoulder-blades with prongs.
My fingers jerked with weariness, my brain was far from light,
The soot had filled my wrinkles, and I looked a dreadful sight!
I thought, as home I staggered to my fairies and my fire,
I'd publish in the papers my intention to retire!
But that was when I could not take
A single step without an ache!
Yet now I want to see the billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”
Of sleeping hard throughout the year. I feel a different man!
Twelve months ago, when I had pleased uncounted girls and boys
By diving down their chimneys with a lot of various toys,
I felt as if an enemy had beaten me with thongs
And stabbed my arms and legs and chest and shoulder-blades with prongs.
My fingers jerked with weariness, my brain was far from light,
The soot had filled my wrinkles, and I looked a dreadful sight!
I thought, as home I staggered to my fairies and my fire,
I'd publish in the papers my intention to retire!
But that was when I could not take
A single step without an ache!
Yet now I want to see the billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”
“I hardly think,” he murmured, as he filled the heavy sack
He meant to take from roof to roof upon his ancient back,
“I hardly think I look my age, although my beard is such
As clergymen would dearly like, if they could grow as much!
My sinews feel as merry as of old they used to be
When first the rocking-horse began to trust his spots to me,
And every bone is ready, from the largest to the least,
To help me on the house-tops through this busy Christmas Feast.
My sleep has doctored me so well, I hardly fear the curves
Of those old-fashioned chimney flues! and they are bad for nerves!
I faltered when I could not take
A single step without an ache,
But now I want to see the billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”
He meant to take from roof to roof upon his ancient back,
90
As clergymen would dearly like, if they could grow as much!
My sinews feel as merry as of old they used to be
When first the rocking-horse began to trust his spots to me,
And every bone is ready, from the largest to the least,
To help me on the house-tops through this busy Christmas Feast.
My sleep has doctored me so well, I hardly fear the curves
Of those old-fashioned chimney flues! and they are bad for nerves!
I faltered when I could not take
A single step without an ache,
But now I want to see the billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”
If you had seen with what an air old Father Christmas flung
The sack across his shoulder-blades, you must have thought him young.
He stood as firm as mountains, while he said his magic o'er,
And then with bird-like easiness rose gently from the floor
And floated through the window, with his beard and toys and smiles,
To land a moment later on a patch of frosty tiles.
When there, the moon assisting him, he rummaged in his pack
For what must go by chimney-post to Betty, Nell, and Jack;
He whispered to a rocking-horse, he led him to the flue,
And then, before the moon could wink, they disappeared from view.
Once more he stood beside a bed
With cosy sheets and blankets spread,
And smiled to see the flooding billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.
The sack across his shoulder-blades, you must have thought him young.
He stood as firm as mountains, while he said his magic o'er,
And then with bird-like easiness rose gently from the floor
And floated through the window, with his beard and toys and smiles,
To land a moment later on a patch of frosty tiles.
When there, the moon assisting him, he rummaged in his pack
For what must go by chimney-post to Betty, Nell, and Jack;
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And then, before the moon could wink, they disappeared from view.
Once more he stood beside a bed
With cosy sheets and blankets spread,
And smiled to see the flooding billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.
“To think,” said Father Christmas, on returning to the tiles,
“I grumbled at a paltry pain! I'd go ten thousand miles
For just a peep at Nellie's mouth, the rose-red lips apart,
Delighted by a lambkin dream skip-skipping in her heart.
So long as children love me well, so long will I accept
The Labour of the Chimney, be it crooked or unswept!
So long as children hold me dear, so long will I prevail,
Though Johnny Frost half kills me with his catapult of hail,
And gather, as my recompense for twinges on the leads,
A million human rosebuds, dreaming Christmas in their beds.
What matter though I cannot take
A single step without an ache?
I stroke in love the flooding billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”
“I grumbled at a paltry pain! I'd go ten thousand miles
For just a peep at Nellie's mouth, the rose-red lips apart,
Delighted by a lambkin dream skip-skipping in her heart.
So long as children love me well, so long will I accept
The Labour of the Chimney, be it crooked or unswept!
So long as children hold me dear, so long will I prevail,
Though Johnny Frost half kills me with his catapult of hail,
And gather, as my recompense for twinges on the leads,
A million human rosebuds, dreaming Christmas in their beds.
What matter though I cannot take
A single step without an ache?
I stroke in love the flooding billows
Of little girls' hair on lily-white pillows.”
| A merry-go-round of song | |