by William Makepeace Thackeray
Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we; Little we fear Weather without, Shelter’d about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night birds are we; Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perch’d round the stem Of the jolly old tree. . . .
Find the rest of the poem here.