Tho’ my wrinkled-up lips still hold the pipe,
No longer the smoke-wreath curls;
But saddest to see, of sights for me—
My frolicsome boys and girls
Have grown so knowing, they dare to say—
Those protesters wise and small—
That all saints deceive, and they don’t believe
In a Santa Claus at all!
Ah, me! ’tis a fateful sound to hear;
’Tis gall in my wassail cup;