The Sun.
London, England, 1844-12-31 00:00:00

Court, has come out with an offer of two shillings in the
pound to his creditors. The hearing of his petition is
adjourned to the 6th of January.

CHRISTMAS SONG of the POOR MAN

BY ELIZA COOK.
"A merry Christmas, Gentlemen,"

'Tis thus the ancient ditty runs,
But minstrels chime no hailing rhyme,

- -
For Poverty's low, haggard-sons.
A merry Christmas to ye all,
Who sit beneath the green-twin'i roof,
To mark how fast the snow flakes fall,
Or listen to the ringing hoof.
A pleasant tune the north wind hums,
When that's without, and ye within;
But like a serpent's fang it comes
Upon the poor man's naked skin.
A merry Christmas to ye all,
Who fold warm robes o'er limb and breast,
Who sleep enclosed by curtain'd wall,
With blankets on your couch of rest.
But I—the poor man—what shall be
The merry Christmas tide to me?

I've seen men her the log trunk through,
I've seen them bear the holly by,
To pile upon the sparkling hearth,
And grace the stall'd ox smoking high.
The oak-root is a mighty thing,
And beauteous the berry red,
But hollow is the joy they bring,
To eyes that dimly look for bread.
The poor man's fire!—pshaw! how should ho
Feel such a strange, luxurious want?
The poor man's meal !—oh, let it be
Some scrap, ungarnish'd, cold and scant.
" A merry Christmas, Gentlemen,"
'Tis thus the ancient ditty runs;
But nought we hear of welcome cheer.
For Poverty's low, haggard sons,
Nor malt, nor meat, nor fruit, nor wine,
Oh, a merry Christmas will be mine.
A rapid ding-dong swelloth round,
The giant steeples shake with glee,
And mistletoe is gaily bound
With branches from the laurel tree.
The midnight gloom is deep—but, hark!
The tones of kindly custom flow,
Sweet music cometh in the dark,
With voices greeting, as they go,
" A merry Christmas, Gentlemen."
Aye, great ones, it is all your own,
The hour is sung, the harp is strung,
Where Plenty flings her treasures down:
What has the poor man got to do
With bells and bay-wreaths, songs and mirth?
Let me creep on with Misery's crew,
'Twist piercing sky and frozen earth;
Nor malt, nor meat, nor fruit, nor wine,
Oh, a merry Christmas tide is mine.
The rich man's boy laughs loud to find
Thick ice upon the streamlet's tide;
His round cheeks freshen in the wind,
His warm feet bound along the slide.
But little loves the poor man's heir
Upon the stagnant rill to look;
He crouches from the biting air,
His thin blood curdles with the brook.
The well-born daughter smiles to think
How gay the lighted room will seem
When friends shall meet to dance and drink,
And all be glad as fairy dream.
The poor man's girl shall only care
To hug her tatter'd garment tight,
To wring the hoar frost from her hair,
And pray that sleep may come with night.
Pale children of a pauper slave,
Rare Christmas gambols ye will have.
" A merry Christmas, Gentlemen,"
Fill, fill your glasses high and fast;
The north wind's shriek is fiercely bleak,
What matter! let it rattle past.
" A merry Christmas, Gentlemen,"
Feast on and chaunt a blythesome strain,
The cutting chill grows bleaker still,
What matter! till the glass again,
Stir up the blaze—rejoice arid feed,
Shout and be happy as ye can,—
My groan arrests ye! take no heed,
'Tis but a hungry fellow-man."
" A merry Christmas, Gentlemen,"
'Tis thus the ancient ditty runs,
No tongue shall sing, no bells shall ring,
For Poverty's low, haggard sons;
Nor malt, nor meat, nor fruit, nor wine,
Oh, a merry Christmas tide is mine!
—Dispatch.