  THE snow lies deep on the frozen ground, And the Christmas night is cold, And I shine before the rime so hoar— Can it be I am growing old? Long years ago when the Christmas chimes Made merry the midnight sky, When the carolers’ call filled houses and hall, And wassail and mirth ran high; When the harlequin mummers reeled and danced, And the great Yule log blazed bright; When the walls were green with a summer sheen, In holly and yew bedight; When the faces of all, the young, the old, Were brimming with sparkling cheer— Aye, those were the times when Christmas chimes Were the merriest sounds of the year! I snapped my fingers in Jack Frost’s teeth, While the snow was wavering down, And the icicles hung from my beard I flung— My beard that was then so brown! And I wrapped myself in my grizzly coat, And lit my pipe with a coal From Hecla’s crest, where I stopped to rest, On my way from the Northern Pole. My reindeers—O, they were brisk and gay— My sledge, it could stand a pull; My pack, tho’ great, seemed a feather’s weight, No matter how crammed and full! My heart it was stout in those good old days, And warm with an inward glee; For I thought of the mirths of a thousand hearts, Where the little ones watched for me. So I gathered my sweets from far and near, And I piled my cunningest toys (Unheeding the swirls) for the innocent girls, But the times have sobered and changed since then, My merriment flags forlorn; My beard is as white as on Christmas night Of old was the Glaston thorn. Tho’ my wrinkled-up lips still hold the pipe, No longer the smoke-wreath curls; But saddest to see, of sights for me— My frolicsome boys and girls Have grown so knowing, they dare to say— Those protesters wise and small— That all saints deceive, and they don’t believe In a Santa Claus at all! Ah, me! ’tis a fateful sound to hear; ’Tis gall in my wassail cup; The darlings I’ve spoiled, so wrought for and toiled, The children have given me up! My heart is broken. I’ll break my pipe, And my tinkling team may go, And bury my sledge on the trackless edge Of the wastes of the Lapland snow. My useless pack I will fling away, And in Germany’s forests hoar, From an icy steep I will plunge leagues deep, And never be heard of more. Margaret J. Preston. dividing line
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