A health to good old Santa Claus,
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.
Ho comes from utmost fairyland
Across the wintry snows;
He makes the fir-tree and the spruce
To blossom like the rose.
Over the quaint old gables,
Over the windy ridge,
By turret wall and chimney tall,
He guided his fairy sledge;
He steals upon the slumbers
Of little rose-lipped girls,
And lays his waxen dollies down
Beside their golden curls.
He scatters blessings on his way,
And sugar-coated plums;
He robs the sluggard from his rest
With trumpets, guns, and drums.
Small feet, before the dawn of day,
Are marching to and fro,
Drums beat to arms through all the house,
And penny trumpets blow.
A health to brave old Santa Claus,
And to his reindeer bold,
Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,
Whose horns are tipped with gold.