‘Twas the night before Feastmas, when all through the place Not a vassal was stirring, not even Count Plais; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that Santa Clais soon would be there; The boyars were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of Dhirim danced in their heads; And Graveth in his ’kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, When out in the courtyard there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a Nord, Tore open the shutters and looked for my lord. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the sheen of butter to objects below, When, what should appear to boggle my mind, But a mini red sleigh, with eight coursers in line. With a little old driver, brandishing a mace, I knew in a moment it must be Santa Clais. More rapid than Khergits his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; “Now, Degl...