Speaker 1: Christmas comes but once a year. By Thomas Miller, Old
Christmas is come for to keep open house and scorns,
to be guilty of starving a mouse. Then come boys,
and welcome for diet the chief. There's plum putting roast goose,
minced pies and roast beef. Then let us be merry
and taste the good, cheer, and remember Old Christmas. But
comes once a year Old Christmas. Carol those Christmas bells
a sweetly chime, as on the day when first they
rung so merrily in the olden time, And far and
wide their music flung, shaking the tall, gray ivied tower
with all their deep melodious power. They still proclaimed to
every ear, Old Christmas comes, but once a year. Then
he came singing through the woods, and plucked the holly,
bright and green, pulled here and there. The ivy buds
was sometimes hidden, sometimes seen half bury neath the mistletoe.
His long beard hung with flakes of snow. And still
he ever caroled clear. Old Christmas comes, but once a year.
He merely came. In days of old, when roads were few,
and ways were foul, Now staggered, Now some ditty trawled,
now drank deep from his wastle bowl, his holly silvered
or with frost, nor never once his way he lost,
for reeling, hero and reeling There Old Christmas came, but
once a year the hall was thin with holly crowned
twas on the wild deer's antler's placed it hemmed, the batter,
armor round, and every ancient trophy graced it decked. The
boar's head tusked and grim, the wastle bull wreathed to
the brim. A summer green hung everywhere. For Christmas came,
but once a year, his jaded steed, the armed Knight,
reined up before the abby gate by all assistant to
a light. From humble monk to abbot grake, they placed
his lance behind the door, his armor on the rush
strown floor, and then brought out the best of cheer.
For Christmas came, but once a year. The maiden, then,
in quaint attire, loosed from her head the silken hood,
and danced before the yulllog fire. The crackling monarch of
the wood, helmet and shield flashed back the blaze in
lines of light like summer rays, while music sounded loud
and clear. For Christmas came, but once a year. What
though upon his hoary head have fallen many a winter's snow,
his wreath is still as green and red as twas
a thousand years ago. For what has he to do
with care? His watale bull and his old arm chair
are ever standing ready there? For Christmas comes but once
a year. No marvel Christmas lives so long he never knew,
but merry hours his knights were spent with mirth and song,
and happy homes, and princely bowers was greeted both by
serf and Lord, and seated at the festal board, while
every voice cried, welcome here. Old Christmas comes but once
a year. But what care we for days of old?
The knights whose arms have turned to rust, their grim boars,
heads and pasties cooled, their castles crumbled into dust. Never
did sweeter faces go blushing beneath the mistletoe than are
to night assembled here, For Christmas still comes once a year.
For those old times are dead and gone, and those
who hailed them passed away, Yet still lingers there. Many
a want to walk him in old Christmas day, the
poor wol Many a care forget the debtor, think not
of his debt. But as they each enjoy their cheer,
wish it was Christmas all the year, And still around
these good old times we hang like friends, full loth
to part. We listened to the simple rhymes which somehow
sink into the heart, half musical, half melancholy, like childish
smiles that still are holy. A masker's face dimmed with
a tear for Christmas comes but once a year. The
bells which usher in that morn have ever drawn my
mind away to Bethlehem, where Christ was born, and the
low stable where he lay in which the large eyed
oxen fed to marry, bowing lower head and looking down
with love. Sincere such thoughts bring Christmas Once a year,
at early day, the youthful voice heard singing on from
door to door makes the responding heart rejoice to know
the children of the poor v aunts are happy. All
day long, we smile and listen to the song the burthen,
still remote or near. Old Christmas comes but once a year,
upon a gayer, happier sing. Never did holly berries peer
or ivy throw its trailing green on brighter forms than
there are here, nor Christmas in his old arm chair
smile upon his lips and browse more fair then let
us sing amid our cheer. Old Christmas still comes once
a year. End of Christmas comes but once a year
by Thomas Miller