For who, to penury and grief a prey,
At Christmas-tide no signs of pleasure shows?
Flies from the scenes of happiness away,
Nor casts one wistful glance where plenty flows?
At that glad time the face in smiles is drest,
And ev’ry honest heart around is gay;
E’en the poor lab’ror strives to have a feast,
E’en the sad widow wipes her tears away.
For thee who, mindful of this festal day,
Dost try in rhyme its pleasures to relate,