Oh, with a sore and aching heart The lonely captive child Roamed through the palace, big and grand, And wept and never smiled. And all the heathen jeered at him, And called him Christian dog, And when the king was angry He kicked him like a log. One day, just as the cruel king Had sat him down to dine, And in his jeweled cup of gold The page was pouring wine, The little fellow’s heart ran o’er In tears he could not stay, For he remembered suddenly, It was the very day On which the yearly feast was kept Of good St. Nicholas, And at his home that very hour Were dancing on the grass, With music, and with feasting, all The children of the town. The king looked up, and saw his tears; His face began to frown: “How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tears Are running in my cup; ’Twas not with these, but with good wine, I bade thee fill it up. “Why weeps the hound?” The child replied, “I weep, because to-day, In name of good St. Nicholas, All Christian children play; And all my kindred gather home, From greatest unto least, And keep to good St. Nicholas, A merry banquet feast.” The heathen king laughed scornfully: “If he be saint indeed, Thy famous great St. Nicholas, Why does he not take heed To thee to-day, and bear thee back To thy own native land? Ha! well I wot, he cannot take One slave from out my hand!” Scarce left the boastful words his tongue When, with astonished eyes, The cruel king a giant form Saw swooping from the skies. A whirlwind shook the palace walls, The doors flew open wide, And lo! the good St. Nicholas Came in with mighty stride. Right past the guards, as they were not, Close to the king’s gold chair, With striding steps the good Saint came, And seizing by the hair The frightened little page, he bore Him, in a twinkling, high Above the palace topmost roof, And vanished in the sky. Now at that very hour was spread A banquet rich and dear, Within the little page’s home To which, from far and near, The page’s mourning parents called All poor to come and pray With them, to good St. Nicholas, Upon his sacred day. Thinking, perhaps, that he would heal Their anguish and their pain, And at poor people’s prayers might give Their child to them again. Now what a sight was there to see, When flying through the air, The Saint came carrying the boy, Still by his curly hair! And set him on his mother’s knee, Too frightened yet to stand, And holding still the king’s gold cup Fast in his little hand.