Page:Our American Holidays - Christmas.djvu/154

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Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang in its bloom; Night-birds are we; Here we carouse. Singing, like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit — Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short — When we are gone. Let them sing on. Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true. Gentle and just. Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree.

Care like a dun. Lurks at the gate; Let the dog wait; Happy we'll be!