Christmas is here! Let the plums and the suet Be mingled once more in ungrudging supplies! Let the lover of punch hasten swiftly to brew it! Make ready a score of mince-pies! (But, alas! let us not be completely forgetful Of how indigestion is fostered and bred, How a surfeit of food makes the family fretful, While alcohol flies to the head; Lest a fortnight devoted to over-nutrition Entail a recourse to the nearest physician!) Christmas is here! Ev'ry mother shall borrow Her spouse's best stockings to tie to the cot Of the baby, who hopes they'll contain, on the morrow, Drums, trumpets, and goodness knows what! (But it's rather a blow when the footwear allotted To hang full of goodies and toys through the night, Is returned to its owner, misshapen and clotted With toffee and Turkish Delight; While a drum is a bore if you constantly thump it, And life can be poisoned by sounds from a trumpet!) [Illustration] Christmas is here! All our nephews and nieces Troop happily home to delight us at Yule! We rejoice when the holiday season releases The inmates of college and school! (But perhaps when at dawn they awake us by shouting 'When Shepherds'--a hymn which they sing out of tune-- They may furnish some fifty good reasons for doubting If holidays _are_ such a boon; And even the kindliest relative wearies Of constantly answering juvenile queries!) Christmas is here! Little children excited Make domiciles vocal with shrieks of applause, As they ask that the candle-decked fir-tree be lighted, In honour of kind Santa Claus! (But, alas! for the person of years known as 'riper'! By clatter and racket his nerves are unstrung; He is followed about, like a second Pied Piper, By droves of the clamorous young! All in vain does he seek for some haven of quiet; No room in the building is free from their riot!) Christmas is here! Let us load our relations With presents expensive and offerings rare, And assume, as we lavish our tips and donations, A noble and bountiful air! (But, alas! when we've purchased the costliest jewel For dear Cousin Jane, and despatched it by post, And she sends in return a small mat, worked in crewel, And worth eighteenpence at the most, Shall we say, recollecting the gift that we bought her, 'Dear Jane is a trifle more _dear_ than we thought her'?) Christmas is here! Let us go serenading, In glees and in madrigals raising our voice, In the snow of the street, 'neath your windows parading, O maidens divine of our choice! (But we mustn't forget how our _last_ Christmas carols Were spoilt by your parents' inhuman attacks, When they brought out their shot-guns and emptied both barrels Bang into the smalls of our backs! If one justly expects some applause and encoring, A ball in the back is excessively boring!)