And icy moonbeams dart about
The snow that shrouds the slumbering lawn,—
The lawn that Santa Claus must cross
Ere he shall reach my baby's cot,—
Ah! who shall measure Bertie's loss
Should Santa Claus come not!
Sleep, softly sleep, my pretty one;
I hear the neighing of the steeds,—
Good Santa Claus has just begun
His round of kindly deeds.