Gladly the boy, with Christmas box in hand,
Throughout the town his devious route pursues,
And, of his master’s customers, implores
The yearly mite. Often his cash he shakes —
The which, perchance, of coppers few consists —
Whose dulcet jingle fills his little soul
With joy as boundless as the debtor feels
When, from the bailiff’s rude, uncivil gripe,
His friends redeem him, and, with pity fraught,
The claims of all his creditors discharge.
