Poems (Cook)/We'll sing another Christmas Song
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
WE'LL SING ANOTHER CHRISTMAS SONG.
We'll sing another Christmas song; for who shall ever tire,
To hear the olden ballad-theme around a Christmas fire?
We'll sing another Christmas song, and pass the wassail-cup;
For fountains that refresh the heart, should never be dried up.
Ne'er tell us that each Yule-tide brings more silver to our hair;
Time seldom scatters half the snow that quickly gathers there:
The goading of Ambition's thorns—the toiling heed of gold—
'Tis these do more than rolling years in making us grow old:
Then shake Old Christmas by the hand—in kindness let him dwell;
For he's King of right good company, and we should treat him well.
To hear the olden ballad-theme around a Christmas fire?
We'll sing another Christmas song, and pass the wassail-cup;
For fountains that refresh the heart, should never be dried up.
Ne'er tell us that each Yule-tide brings more silver to our hair;
Time seldom scatters half the snow that quickly gathers there:
The goading of Ambition's thorns—the toiling heed of gold—
'Tis these do more than rolling years in making us grow old:
Then shake Old Christmas by the hand—in kindness let him dwell;
For he's King of right good company, and we should treat him well.
Why should we let pale Discontent fling canker on the hours—
Unjust regrets lurk round the soul, like snakes in leafy bowers;
And though the flood of Plenty's tide upon our lot may pour;
How oft the lip will murmur still, the horseleech cry for "more."
We sigh for wealth—we pant for place—and, getting what we crave,
We often find it only coils fresh chains about the slave.
Year after year may gently help to turn the dark locks white;
But Time ne'er fades a flower so soon as cold and worldly blight:
Then shake Old Christmas by the hand—in kindness let him dwell;
For he's King of right good company, and we should treat him well.
Unjust regrets lurk round the soul, like snakes in leafy bowers;
And though the flood of Plenty's tide upon our lot may pour;
How oft the lip will murmur still, the horseleech cry for "more."
We sigh for wealth—we pant for place—and, getting what we crave,
We often find it only coils fresh chains about the slave.
Year after year may gently help to turn the dark locks white;
But Time ne'er fades a flower so soon as cold and worldly blight:
Then shake Old Christmas by the hand—in kindness let him dwell;
For he's King of right good company, and we should treat him well.
Be glad—be glad—stir up the blaze, and let our spirits yield
The incense that is grateful as the "lilies of the field;"
"Good will to all"—'tis sweet and rich, and helps to keep away
The wrinkled pest of frowning brows—and mildew shades of gray.
Be glad—be glad—and though we have some cypress in our wreath;
Forget not there are rosebuds too, that ever peep beneath.
And though long years may line the cheek, and wither up the heart;
It is not Time, but selfish Care, that does the saddest part.
Then shake Old Christmas by the hand—in kindness let him dwell;
For he's King of right good company, and we should treat him well.
The incense that is grateful as the "lilies of the field;"
"Good will to all"—'tis sweet and rich, and helps to keep away
The wrinkled pest of frowning brows—and mildew shades of gray.
Be glad—be glad—and though we have some cypress in our wreath;
Forget not there are rosebuds too, that ever peep beneath.
And though long years may line the cheek, and wither up the heart;
It is not Time, but selfish Care, that does the saddest part.
Then shake Old Christmas by the hand—in kindness let him dwell;
For he's King of right good company, and we should treat him well.