By Alice Mobin.
Here’s old Father Christmas come again,
Come meet him, girls and boys;
He taps with his hand at the window-pane,
Come greet him with plenty of noise.
Shout and sing to the old Christmas king,
And give him a place by the fire,
For toys he brings, and lots of nice things—
Of old Christmas we’ll never tire.
It snows and it blows, and cold is his nose,
And his beard is covered with ice,
But his heart is light and his smile is bright,
For he brings us all something nice
For see the pack that he has on his back
To distribute to girls and boys,
There are swords and guns, and dolls and drums, And all sorts of beautiful toys.
Then on Christmas Eve he fills his sleeve
With things for the Tiny Pets, And when little heads are asleep in their beds
Down the tall chimney he gets.
And then he spies with his bright old eyes
The stockings all hung in a row,
So he puts things in right up to the brim,
Then off and away he must go.
Such shouts and fun when the morning sun
Comes peeping through the blinds,
Such chattering here, such scampering there.
You’d think they were out of their minds,
They all did grieve when old Christmas took leave,
And they wished him right good cheer;
Then he said, “Good-bye. Be good, and I’ll try
To see you again next year.”