With his fondness for friendship, and laughter, and wine.
No, boy, I don't greatly believe in the birch,
(Though sometimes my bâton must play—on rogues' shoulders.)
Love's rather too apt to be left in the lurch
By Orbilian smiters and scolders.
Under the Mistletoe Bough
A kiss is best treatment, I trow.
A salute from the lips of your Punch you'll not spurn,
And the young guests around you shall each take a turn.
The outlook, my lad, seems a little bit drear,