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To The Next Christmas

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<h3> TO NEXT CHRISTMAS </h3> My dear Next Christmas,— It is an excellent journalistic thing, Not to say a poetical thing, To be first in the field. Behold me, therefore, advancing At the head of that motley army Which will inevitably hail you When your time comes. For your predecessor, My dear Next Christmas, I cannot say much. He came in with several thousand inches of rain; He went out on a watery moon. There was turkey as usual, Pudding as usual, Mistletoe as usual, Peace on earth as usual. There were also the waits, The young folks, The postman, The dustman (No connection with the scavengers), And the turncock. We had a merry day. Half the world pretended to be happy, The other half pretended to be bored. The festivities, I understand, Are still being kept up. There is a ping-pong tournament at the Queen's Hall And a children's banquet At the Guildhall on Tuesday evening; Not to mention Mr. Dan Leno at Drury Lane And Mr. De Wet at the Tweefontein. It is all very cheerful And very inspiriting. All the same, Let us not repine:         Christmas comes but once a year,         And it will come again, I fear. This couplet, of course. My dear Next Christmas, Is not intended to be Disrespectful to you; It is inserted simply For the sake of effect. For I never miss an opportunity Of bursting into rhyme. When the way is plain before me. My dear Next Christmas, Do not be discouraged, Come next year by all means; If I said "Don't come" You would come just the same. Therefore, I say "Come," And I trust, my dear Next Christmas, That when you do come You will bring us a little luck. Ring out the old, as it were, And ring in the new; Let candied peel Be a trifle cheaper; Let the war be settled To the satisfaction of both parties; Let the book trade flourish; Let the Income-tax be reduced: Let there be a fine Christmas Eve And dry waits, And a little skating next morning; Let there be peace and plenty, A pocket full of money, And a barrel full of beer, And all other good things, Including a free and enlightened Press, And a strong demand For seasonable poetry. My dear Next Christmas, Here is my hand, With my heart in it. Till we meet again— As Mr. Hall Caine says— Addio. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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