THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Posted on 12/9/2009 at 6:36:29 PM

Marauder Style
by Michael & Muriel Fahrion

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the bunkhouse

Not a creature was stirring, ‘cept an old field mouse;

The boots were placed by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

Marauders in bedrolls were all snuggled down,

With visions of six-guns shooting up the town;

I was a hangin’ my hat up for the night

Geared up to bed down ‘n blow out the light,

When out in the corral there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Grabbin’ my six-gun and cockin’ the hammer,

I slipped to the window in a shifty manner.

The moon on the brown grass of the prairie below

Gave the objects a strange, spooky glow,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature wagon, with an eight mule team,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his mules they came,

And he whistled, and hollered, and called them by name;

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the fence! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As tumble weeds before the wild tornado fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the housetop the mules they flew,

With the wagon full of loot, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I holstered my gun, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was all duded up in homespun, from head to foot,

And his outfit was all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of loot he had flung on his back,

Why he looked like a peddler opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks all sun burnt, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

His jingling spurs were shinny and bright,

And glittered and sparkled in my lamp light;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

I squinted and stared at that dusty old sprite,

A thinkin’ he was the outlaw Seth Wright.

No gun belt was circling his middle spread,

Which gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He weren’t a jawin’, but went straight to his work,

And filled all them boots; and turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his wagon, to his team gave a whistle,

Off they skedaddled like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him hollar, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”