Christmas comes but once a year;
Happy that twice it cometh not:
For sirloin is uncommon dear,
And dear the pudding in the pot;
And floods are out, and rooms are chill,
And every morning brings a bill.
That plant yclept the mistletoe
To me by no means pleasant is:
My daughters underneath it go
To meet a detrimental kiss,
From one who nothing hath a year,
And liveth in a street called Queer.
My parson preacheth straight at me,
My wine-merchant sends claret sour,
My stocks are down to thirty-three,
My stockbroker won’t wait an hour;
My boys, escaped scholastic swish,
Take from the larder what they wish.
Well, life has consolations still:
Locked in my study, far away
From riots that my household fill,
I pass a calm, if cheerless day —
Thankful, as bed-time draweth near,
That Christmas comes but once a year.
