I Will Choose A Christmas Tree
I will choose a Christmas tree
to celebrate the Birth:
I will plant it carefully
upon God’s good deep earth.
I will tend my Christmas tree
in honor of the Child:
I will leave it growing
in the wetness and the wild.
While the little boys
While the little boys cry ‘merry Christmas is coming,’
Shall I be as dull as a water-drunk log?
No! I’ll sing you a song (for we bards must be humming)
And the burden shall still be, Beware of Egg-nog.
When the bowl mantles over the elegant foam,
And the steam rises up in a silvery tog;
Put by the potation, keep Reason at home,
And think of my warning, Beware of Egg-nog.
It’s another Christmas Eve Another
It’s another Christmas Eve Another year it is,
it’s hard to believe Tonight we’re going to celebrate
It’s the time of the year that we await.
Christ was born in a manger Today,
He’s King and no stranger Tonight
we’re going to celebrate It’s the
time of the year that we await.
A Chubby Little Snowman
A chubby little snowman
had a carrot nose.
Along came a bunny,
and what do you suppose?
That hungry little bunny,
looking for some lunch,
Grabbed that snowman’s nose,
Nibble, nibble, crunch..
Little Jack Horner
Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating of Christmas pie:
He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said, “What a good boy am I!
One little star on the top of the tree,
Two little presents underneath for me,
Three silver ropes twisted around the tree,
Four colored lights shining prettily,
Five shining balls flowing silvery.
Oh, what a sight for use to see!
When cold the winds blow,
And comes the white snow,
Then look out for good Saint Nick.
He comes in a sleigh
From miles, miles away,
And vanishes very quick.
A song was heard at Christmas
To wake the midnight sky:
A saviour’s birth, and peace on earth,
And praise to God on high.
The angels sang at Christmas
With all the hosts above,
And still we sing the newborn King
His glory and his love.
Each house is swept the day before,
And windows stuck with evergreens,
The snow is besom’d from the door,
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.
Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks
And yew and box, with berries small,
These deck the unused candlesticks,
And pictures hanging by the wall.
The singing waits, a merry throng,
At early morn with simple skill,
Yet imitate the angel’s song,
And chant their Christmas ditty still;
And, mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits, in hummings softly steals
The music of the village bells,
Ringing round their merry peals.