Happy Feastmas to all you vassals, looters and peasants!

‘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, Deglan! now, Delinard! now, Klargus and Beranz!

On, Regas! on, Meltor! on, Stamar and Grainwad!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As looters that before the manhunters fly,

When they their doom coming, flee, run and hide;

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of butter, and Santa Clais too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each vassal’s boot.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney Santa Clais came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with butter and soot;

A bundle of weapons he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a vendor just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks, though, were bloody, red like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

Stolen from a peasant he sadly did meet;

He had a broad face and a fat round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Swad,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of the lard;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Feastmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

Submitted December 24, 2017 at 06:35PM by Zippollini http://ift.tt/2DHYLi7