He comes warm cloaked and coated,
And buttoned up to the chin;
And soon as he comes a-nigh the door
We open and let him in.
And with sprigs of holly and ivy
We make the house look gay,
Just out of an old regard for him,
For it was his ancient way.
He must be a rich old fellow,
What money he gives away!
There is not a lord in England
Could equal him any day.
Good luck unto old Christmas,
And long life, let us sing,
For he doth more good unto the poor
Than many a crowned king.
* * * * *
POEMS BY ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY
THE PIG AND THE HEN
The pig and the hen,
They both got in one pen,
And the hen said she wouldn't go out.
"Mistress Hen," says the pig,
"Don't you be quite so big!"
And he gave her a push with his snout.
"You are rough, and you're fat,
But who cares for all that;
I will stay if I choose," says the hen.
"No, mistress, no longer!"
Says pig, "I'm the stronger,
And mean to be boss of my pen!"
Then the hen cackled out
Just as close to his snout
As she dare: "You're an ill-natured brute,
And if I had the corn,
Just as sure as I'm born,
I would send you to starve or to root!"