Ho, ho, my little rogues. You set a trap To catch me napping; now who takes the nap? I'm an old schemer; even your sharp eyes Could never find me in this queer disguise. Dream on, my darlings, while I treasures heap. Ho, ho! to fill your hose while you're asleep. Year after year, I drop in on the sly, Through chimneys made for me so broad and high; To pop down them is made my cheerful duty; It suits me too—sometimes, almost too sooty. Let's see: what year is this? why bless my eyes, It's 1872.—Good Gracious! how time flies! And children multiply so fast, 'tis clear, A partner I must have another year. I'm really getting old. This wrinkled phiz Of good old age a striking symbol is. And yet I'm strong, can frolic, dance, or play With young folks yet for many a Christmas day. So I'll not grumble; while I can, I'll strive To let my boys and girls know I'm alive.
