« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
A SONG FOR THE YOUNG AND THE WISE.
CHRISTMAS Comes! He comes, he comes,
Hollies in the windows greet him;
Curtains, those snug room-enfolders,
And he has a million eyes
Of fire, and eats a million pies,
And is very merry and wise;
And loves a kiss beneath the berry.
Now is he a green array,
And now an eve" and now a "day;"
He's a man that can't write verses,
And he's forfeits, cards, and wassails,
Every body's family;
Beef and pudding, and mince-pies,
Whom their seniors ask arch questions,
Feigning fears of indigestions,
(As if they, forsooth, the old ones
IIadn't privately tenfold ones!)
IIe's a dinner, and a fire,
Heap'd beyond your heart's desire,
And your cheek the fire outstares,
The Philosopher and her Father.
"Papa, you know it very well
That sound-it was Saint Pancras Bell."
"My own Louise, put down the cat,
And come and stand by me; I'm sad to hear you talk like that, Where's your philosophy?
That sound-attend to what I tell
That sound was not Saint Pancras Bell.
"Sound is the name the sage selects
For the concluding term
Of a long series of effects,
Of which that blow's the germ.
The following brief analysis