Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,
That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store,
So grand and gay;
But one that sings remember th’ poor,
’Tis Christmas Day.

Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.

O make the weary spent-up glad,
And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,
Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy-bones stark mad
To dance a reel.

Then peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne’er be forgot,
That helps the widow in her cot,
From of your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
The poor are poor.