Says the Old-fashioned Christmas to the New-fangled Christmas,
“’Pon my word, my boy, I don’t think much of you.”
Says the New-fangled Christmas to the Old-fashioned Christmas,
“Well, with tastes like yours, I don’t suppose you do.
For, to celebrate a season, very fortunately brief,
At your age too,—with an orgie of plum-pudding and roast beef,
Crowned with holly, in a dressing-gown! The thing’s past all belief!”
Says Old Christmas, with a nod, “My boy, that’s true.”
Says the New-fangled Christmas to the Old-fashioned Christmas,
“For tomfoolery like yours we have no zest.”