Write, "This is the baby’s stocking
  That hangs in the corner here;
You never have seen her, Santa,
  For she only came this year;
But she’s just the blessedest baby!
  And now, before you go,
Just cram her stocking with goodies,
  From the top clean down to the toe."

God rest you, merry gentlemen!
  May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic plats
  Through which you’ll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
  The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
  Of being to order gay;

Nor yet the shocking cold you’ll catch
  If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
  If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights—they’re sure to come—
  When "waits" attune their lay;