God rest you, merry gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic plats
Through which you’ll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
Of being to order gay;
Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch
If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights — they’re sure to come —
When “waits” attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar gray;
Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet — in fact, the host of ills
Which Christmases array.
God rest you, merry gentlemen,
May none of these dismay!
