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Speaker 1: Christmas comes but once a year. By Thomas Miller, Old

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Christmas is come for to keep open house and scorns,

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to be guilty of starving a mouse. Then come boys,

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and welcome for diet the chief. There's plum putting roast goose,

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minced pies and roast beef. Then let us be merry

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and taste the good, cheer, and remember Old Christmas. But

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comes once a year Old Christmas. Carol those Christmas bells

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a sweetly chime, as on the day when first they

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rung so merrily in the olden time, And far and

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wide their music flung, shaking the tall, gray ivied tower

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with all their deep melodious power. They still proclaimed to

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every ear, Old Christmas comes, but once a year. Then

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he came singing through the woods, and plucked the holly,

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bright and green, pulled here and there. The ivy buds

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was sometimes hidden, sometimes seen half bury neath the mistletoe.

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His long beard hung with flakes of snow. And still

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he ever caroled clear. Old Christmas comes, but once a year.

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He merely came. In days of old, when roads were few,

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and ways were foul, Now staggered, Now some ditty trawled,

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now drank deep from his wastle bowl, his holly silvered

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or with frost, nor never once his way he lost,

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for reeling, hero and reeling There Old Christmas came, but

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once a year the hall was thin with holly crowned

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twas on the wild deer's antler's placed it hemmed, the batter,

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armor round, and every ancient trophy graced it decked. The

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boar's head tusked and grim, the wastle bull wreathed to

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the brim. A summer green hung everywhere. For Christmas came,

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but once a year, his jaded steed, the armed Knight,

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reined up before the abby gate by all assistant to

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a light. From humble monk to abbot grake, they placed

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his lance behind the door, his armor on the rush

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strown floor, and then brought out the best of cheer.

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For Christmas came, but once a year. The maiden, then,

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in quaint attire, loosed from her head the silken hood,

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and danced before the yulllog fire. The crackling monarch of

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the wood, helmet and shield flashed back the blaze in

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lines of light like summer rays, while music sounded loud

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and clear. For Christmas came, but once a year. What

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though upon his hoary head have fallen many a winter's snow,

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his wreath is still as green and red as twas

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a thousand years ago. For what has he to do

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with care? His watale bull and his old arm chair

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are ever standing ready there? For Christmas comes but once

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a year. No marvel Christmas lives so long he never knew,

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but merry hours his knights were spent with mirth and song,

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and happy homes, and princely bowers was greeted both by

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serf and Lord, and seated at the festal board, while

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every voice cried, welcome here. Old Christmas comes but once

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a year. But what care we for days of old?

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The knights whose arms have turned to rust, their grim boars,

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heads and pasties cooled, their castles crumbled into dust. Never

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did sweeter faces go blushing beneath the mistletoe than are

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to night assembled here, For Christmas still comes once a year.

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For those old times are dead and gone, and those

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who hailed them passed away, Yet still lingers there. Many

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a want to walk him in old Christmas day, the

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poor wol Many a care forget the debtor, think not

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of his debt. But as they each enjoy their cheer,

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wish it was Christmas all the year, And still around

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these good old times we hang like friends, full loth

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to part. We listened to the simple rhymes which somehow

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sink into the heart, half musical, half melancholy, like childish

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smiles that still are holy. A masker's face dimmed with

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a tear for Christmas comes but once a year. The

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bells which usher in that morn have ever drawn my

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mind away to Bethlehem, where Christ was born, and the

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low stable where he lay in which the large eyed

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oxen fed to marry, bowing lower head and looking down

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with love. Sincere such thoughts bring Christmas Once a year,

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at early day, the youthful voice heard singing on from

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door to door makes the responding heart rejoice to know

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the children of the poor v aunts are happy. All

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day long, we smile and listen to the song the burthen,

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still remote or near. Old Christmas comes but once a year,

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upon a gayer, happier sing. Never did holly berries peer

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or ivy throw its trailing green on brighter forms than

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there are here, nor Christmas in his old arm chair

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smile upon his lips and browse more fair then let

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us sing amid our cheer. Old Christmas still comes once

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a year. End of Christmas comes but once a year

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by Thomas Miller