All through the year, towards his feet,
He slumbering in his place alone,
Waiting December days to greet
The "Beauty's" snowy beard has grown;
Whilst all about his bulky form
Fir-hedge and holly sprout and twirl.
Sleeping he snoreth, snug and warm,
His breath scarce stirs his beard's crisp curl.
He sleeps: the jolly, brave Old Bird,
Ruddy of phiz as warm of heart,
Who, when he's annually stirred,
Is always good, and game to "part."
He sleeps: all round his cosy cell
His long-stored gifts are waiting use;
And--till awaked--he there doth dwell,
A cosy form in cosy snooze.