It's "be a good boy, Willie,"
And it's "run away and play,
For Santa Claus is coming
With his reindeer and his sleigh."
It's "mind what mother tells you,"
And it's "put away your toys,
For Santa Claus is coming
To the good girls and the boys."
Ho, Santa Claus is coming, there is Christmas in the air,
And little girls and little boys are good now everywhere.
World-wide the little fellows
Now are sweetly saying "please,"
And "thank you," and "excuse me,"
And those little pleasantries
That good children are supposed to
When there's company to hear;
And it's just as plain as can be
That the Christmas time is near.
Ho, it's just as plain as can be that old Santa's on his way,
For there are no little children that are really bad to-day.
And when evening shadows lengthen,
Every little curly head
Now is ready, aye, and willing
To be tucked away in bed;
Not one begs to stay up longer,
Not one even sheds a tear;
Ho, the goodness of the children
Is a sign that Santa's near.
It's wonderful, the goodness of the little tots to-day,
When they know that good old Santa has begun to pack his sleigh.
They give their all, this Christmastide, that peace on earth shall reign;
Upon the snows of Flanders now, brave blood has left its stain;
With ribbons red we deck our gifts; theirs bear the red of pain.
They give their lives that joy shall live and little children play;
They pass that all that makes for peace shall not be swept away;
They die that children yet unborn shall have their Christmas Day.
Come! deck the home with holly wreaths and make this Christmas glow,
And let Old Glory wave above the bough of mistletoe!
Come! keep alive the faith of them who sleep 'neath Flanders snow.
Ye brave of heart who dwell at home, make merry now a-while;
The world has need of Christmas cheer its sorrows to beguile;
And blest is he whose love can light grief's corners with a smile.
Ring out once more, sweet Christmas bells, your message to the sky,
Proclaim in golden tones again to every passer-by
That peace shall rule the lands of earth, and only war shall die.
Let love's sweet tenderness relieve war's cruel crimson clutch,
Send forth the Christmas spirit, every troubled heart to touch;
Blest will be all we do for them who do for us so much.
If I could have my wish to-night it would not be for wealth or fame,
It would not be for some delight that men who live in luxury claim,
But it would be that I might rise at three or four a. m. to see,
With eager, happy, boyish eyes, my presents on the Christmas tree.
Throughout this world there is no joy, I know now I am growing gray,
So rich as being just a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.
I'd like once more to stand and gaze enraptured on a tinseled tree,
With eyes that know just how to blaze, a heart still tuned to ecstasy;
I'd like to feel the old delight, the surging thrills within me come;
To love a thing with all my might, to grasp the pleasure of a drum;
To know the meaning of a toy--a meaning lost to minds blase;
To be just once again a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.
I'd like to see a pair of skates the way they looked to me back then,
Before I'd turned from boyhood's gates and marched into the world of men;
I'd like to see a jackknife, too, with those same eager, dancing eyes
That couldn't fault or blemish view; I'd like to feel the same surprise,
The pleasure, free from all alloy, that has forever passed away,
When I was just a little boy and had my faith in Christmas Day.
Oh, little, laughing, roguish lad, the king that rules across the sea
Would give his scepter if he had such joy as now belongs to thee!
And beards of gray would give their gold, and all the honors they possess,
Once more within their grasp to hold thy present fee of happiness.
Earth sends no greater, surer joy, as, too soon, thou, as I, shall say,
Than that of him who is a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.
He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn't come.
He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed.
He didn't know how hungry had the little mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he couldn't get away.
He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see.
He didn't think about it-I'll not say he didn't care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there.
Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter-it will make their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness-if you'll tell them that you'll come.