And you have to look contented as you sit and watch them stuff—
When they give you Christmas pudding, and consider it a treat,
Though they know that you are feeling far too bilious to eat—
When the very house reverberates with tradesmen's constant knocks,
As they call in quick succession to demand a Christmas-box!
Oh, Christmas is a season, when I long to sit alone,
In some clean and quiet garret, I can really call my own;
Where no Christmas Cards can reach me with their idiotic rhymes—
Where I never hear of Harris, and his splendid Pantomimes.
Where the turkey and the goose would feel distinctly out of place,