Page:Our American Holidays - Christmas.djvu/154

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Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang in its bloom;
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse.
Singing, like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit —
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short —
When we are gone.
Let them sing on.
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true.
Gentle and just.
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care like a dun.
Lurks at the gate;
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!