Drink now the strong beer,
  Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a-shredding;
  For the rare mince-pie,
  And the plums stand by,
To fill the paste that's a kneading.

He comes in the night! He comes in the night!
  He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
  Are dreaming of bugles and drums.
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
  While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
  Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
  It will carry a host of things.
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
  With the sticks sticking under the strings:
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
  Not a bugle blast is blown,