O village fiddlers, happy ye!
Christmas to you still truly breathes
Good-will and peace, but not to me!
Yes, gladness is your simple rôle
Ye foolish girls, ye labouring poor;
But ill would joy beseem my soul,
To sigh, my past is, and endure.
For as once Rousseau stood, I stand
Apart, made picturesque by grief
One of a small world-weary band,