En.Citatepedia^®.ro

By The Fireside : King Witlaf's Drinking-horn

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,--

That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.

And the reader droned from the pulpit
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, 'Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!'

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The King Of Thule

IN Thule lived a monarch,

Still faithful to the grave,
To whom his dying mistress

A golden goblet gave.

Beyond all price he deem'd it,

He quaff'd it at each feast;
And, when he drain'd that goblet,

His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.

And when he felt death near him,

His cities o'er he told,
And to his heir left all things,

But not that cup of gold.

A regal banquet held he

In his ancestral ball,
In yonder sea-wash'd castle,

'Mongst his great nobles all.

There stood the aged reveller,

And drank his last life's-glow,--
Then hurl'd the holy goblet

Into the flood below.

He saw it falling, filling,

And sinking 'neath the main,
His eyes then closed for ever,

He never drank again.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Little Saint Nick

Oooooooo
Merry christmas saint nick
Christmas comes this time each year
Oooooooo oooooooo
Well, way up north where the air gets cold
Theres a tale about christmas that youve all been told
And a real famous cat all dressed up in red
And he spends the whole year workin out on his sled
Its the little saint nick
Ooooo, little saint nick
Its the little saint nick
Ooooo, little saint nick
Just a little bobsled we call it old saint nick
But shell walk a toboggan with a four speed stick
Shes candy-apple red with a ski for a wheel
And when santa hits the gas, man, just watch her peel
Its the little saint nick
Ooooo, little saint nick
Its the little saint nick
Ooooo, little saint nick
Run run reindeer
Run run reindeer
Whoaa
Run run reindeer
Run run reindeer
He dont miss no one
And haulin through the snow at a frightenin speed
With a half a dozen deer with rudy to lead
Hes gotta wear his goggles cause the snow really flies
And hes cruisin every pad with a little surprise
Its the little saint nick
Ooooo, little saint nick
Its the little saint nick
Ooooo, little saint nick
Ahhhhhh
Oooooooo
Merry christmas saint nick
Christmas comes this time each year
Ahhhhhh
Oooooooo
Merry christmas saint nick
Christmas comes this time each year
Ahhhhhh
Oooooooo
Merry christmas saint nick
Christmas comes this time each year

song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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from: Shoemaker's Holiday, Or The Gentle Craft

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed ;
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee ;
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down,
Close with the tenor, boy ;
Ho ! well done, to me let come,
Ring compass, gentle joy.
Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind, &c. (As often as there be men to drink.)

(At last, when all have drunk, this verse.)

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed ;
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

poem by Thomas Dekker
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I sung sometimes

I sung sometimes my thoughts’ and fancy's pleasure,
Where then I list, or time serv’d best and leisure,
While Daphne did invite me
To supper once, and drank to me to spite me.
I smil’d, yet still did doubt her,
And drank where she had drank before, to flout her.
But oh while I did eye her,
My eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire.

poem by John Wilbye
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A Satisfactory Reform

A merry burgomaster
In a burgh upon the Rhine
Said, 'Our burghers all are
Far too fond of drinking wine.'
So the merry burgomaster,
When the burgomasters met,
Bade them look into the matter
Ere the thing went farther yet.

And the merry burgomasters
Did decide the only way
To alleviate the evil
Without worry or delay
Would be just to call a meeting
Of the burghers, great and small,
And then open every wine cask
And proceed to drink it all.

'For,' they said, 'when we have swallowed
Every drop that’s in the land,
There can be no more of drinking,
It is plain to understand.'
So they called a monster meeting,
And the burghers, small and great,
Drank and drank until they were too
Tipsy to perambulate.

But there still was wine in plenty,
So, in sooth, the only way
Was to call another meeting;
So they called it for next day.
Thus from day to day the burghers
Met and swallowed seas of wine,
And they vowed the reformation
Was a mission quite divine.

And today the worthy burghers
In that burgh upon the Rhine
Still continue their great mission,
And still swallow seas of wine.
And they vow they will not falter
In their great reforming task
Till the last drop has been emptied
From the very last wine cask.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Up On The Housetop

Album: Wrangler Cowboy Christmas
(B.R. Hanby)
Up on the housetop reindeer pause
Out jumps good old Santa Claus
Down thru the chimney with lots of toys
All for the little ones Christmas joys
Chorus
Ho, ho, ho!
Who wouldn't go!
Ho, ho, ho!
Who wouldn't go!
Up on the housetop
Click, click, click
Down thru the chimney with
Good Saint Nick
--- Instrumental ---
First comes the stocking of little Nell
Oh, dear Santa, fill it well
Give her a dolly that laughs and cries
One that will open and shut her eyes
Chorus
Ho, ho, ho!
Who wouldn't go!
Ho, ho, ho!
Who wouldn't go!
Up on the housetop
Click, click, click
Down thru the chimney with
Good Saint Nick
Up on the housetop
Click, click, click
Down thru the chimney with
Good Saint Nick...

song performed by by Gary Allan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Abbot Of Innisfallen

The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray'd a prayer for all men,
he pray'd it from his heart.
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho' a breathing man was he;
He was out of time's dominion,
so far as the living may be.

The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
and O but it sung sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him;
he might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,
and gladly went his way.

But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
for every face was strange.
The strange men spoke unto him;
and he heard from all and each
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,
in Irish tongue spake he:
'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,
and who hath given it to thee?'
'I wear the Augustine's dress,
and Cormac is my name,
The Abbot of this good Abbey
by grace of God I am.
I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
and when my prayers were said,
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,
that sung above my head.'
The monks to him made answer,
'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,
and never was heard of more.
Matthias now is our Abbot,
and twenty have pass'd away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
we live in an evil day.'
'Days will come and go,' he said,
'and the world will pass away,
In Heaven a day is a thousand years,
a thousand years are a day.'
'Now give me absolution;
for my time is come,' said he.
And they gave him absolution,
as speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,
the sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
was utter'd by any bird.
The monks look'd out and saw the bird,
its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
another white bird was seen.
Those two they sang together,
waved their white wings, and fled;
Flew aloft, and vanish'd;
but the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed body
where lake and green-sward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
a holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful water
to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney
from ancient woods arise.

poem by William Allingham
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A Boy Growing Up In The Sixties

Played football
played marbles
played cricket
played truant.
First girl
first kiss
first fumble
first slap.
Drank orange
drank Cola
drank lemonade
drank beer.
Acted tough
acted silly
acted up
acted the fool.
Just young
just a boy
just a lad
just me.
The sixties
The Beatles
The Stones
The Who.
Great days
great times
great decade
Great Britain.

poem by Kevin Halls
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Alcohol

When I was nearly round the bend
I turned to you,
I had a drink or two,
I thought that you would help, False Friend!
And so I drank and drank and drank,
And hoped that you would fill the void!
But look at me now, defeated and destroyed,
My misery will never end,
What can I do?
Where is my hope?
Where are the things that I enjoyed?
How can I cope?

By finishing with you, False Friend!
This is the End! !

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Up On The Housetop

(traditional - arranged by reba mcentire)
Up on the housetop reindeer pause
Out jumps good old santa claus
Down through the chimney with lots of toys
All for the little ones, christmas joys
Ho, ho ho! who wouldnt go? ho, ho ho! who wouldnt go?
Up on the housetop, click, click, click
Down through the chimney with old saint nick
First comes the stocking of little nell
Oh, dear santa fill it well
Give her a dolly that laughs and cries
One that will open and shut her eyes
Ho, ho, ho! who wouldnt go? ho, ho, ho! who wouldnt go?
Up on the housetop, click, click, click
Down through the chimney with old saint nick
Next comes the stocking of little will
Oh, just see what a glorious fill
Here is a hammer and lots of tacks
Also a ball and a whip that cracks
Ho, ho ho! who wouldnt go? ho, ho, ho! who wouldnt go?
Up on the housetop, click, click, click
Down through the chimney with old saint nick

song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XII. -- King Olaf's Christmas

At Drontheim, Olaf the King
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring,
As he sat in his banquet-hall,
Drinking the nut-brown ale,
With his bearded Berserks hale
And tall.

Three days his Yule-tide feasts
He held with Bishops and Priests,
And his horn filled up to the brim;
But the ale was never too strong,
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long,
For him.

O'er his drinking-horn, the sign
He made of the cross divine,
As he drank, and muttered his prayers;
But the Berserks evermore
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor
Over theirs.

The gleams of the fire-light dance
Upon helmet and hauberk and lance,
And laugh in the eyes of the King;
And he cries to Halfred the Scald,
Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald,
'Sing!'

'Sing me a song divine,
With a sword in every line,
And this shall be thy reward.'
And he loosened the belt at his waist,
And in front of the singer placed
His sword.

'Quern-biter of Hakon the Good,
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed
The millstone through and through,
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong,
Were neither so broad nor so long,
Nor so true.'

Then the Scald took his harp and sang,
And loud through the music rang
The sound of that shining word;
And the harp-strings a clangor made,
As if they were struck with the blade
Of a sword.

And the Berserks round about
Broke forth into a shout
That made the rafters ring:
They smote with their fists on the board,
And shouted, 'Long live the Sword,
And the King!'

But the King said, 'O my son,
I miss the bright word in one
Of thy measures and thy rhymes.'
And Halfred the Scald replied,
'In another 't was multiplied
Three times.'

Then King Olaf raised the hilt
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt,
And said, 'Do not refuse;
Count well the gain and the loss,
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross:
Choose!'

And Halfred the Scald said, 'This
In the name of the Lord I kiss,
Who on it was crucified!'
And a shout went round the board,
'In the name of Christ the Lord,
Who died!'

Then over the waste of snows
The noonday sun uprose,
Through the driving mists revealed,
Like the lifting of the Host,
By incense-clouds almost
Concealed.

On the shining wall a vast
And shadowy cross was cast
From the hilt of the lifted sword,
And in foaming cups of ale
The Berserks drank 'Was-hael!
To the Lord!'

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Life's Hebe

IN the early morning-shine
Of a certain day divine,
I beheld a Maiden stand
With a pitcher in her hand;
Whence she poured into a cup
Until it was half filled up
Nectar that was golden light
In the cup of crystal bright.

And the first who took the cup
With pure water filled it up;
As he drank then, it was more
Ruddy golden than before:
And he leapt and danced and sang
As to Bacchic cymbals’ clang.

But the next who took the cup
With the red wine filled it up;
What he drank then was in hue
Of a heavy sombre blue:
First he reeled and then he crept,
Then lay faint but never slept.

And the next who took the cup
With the white milk filled it up;
What he drank at first seemed blood,
Then turned thick and brown as mud:
And he moved away as slow
As a weary ox may go.

But the next who took the cup
With sweet honey filled it up;
Nathless that which he did drink
Was thin fluid black as ink:
As he went he stumbled, soon,
And lay still in deathlike swoon.

She the while without a word
Unto all the cup preferred;
Blandly smiled and sweetly laughed
As each mingled his own draught.

And the next who took the cup
To the sunshine held it up,
Gave it back and did not taste;
It was empty when replaced:
First he bowed a reverent bow,
Then he kissed her on the brow.

But the next who took the cup
Without mixture drank it up;
When she took it back from him
It was full unto the brim:
He with a right bold embrace
Kissed her sweet lips face to face.

Then she sang with blithest cheer:
Who has thirst, come here, come here!
Nectar that is golden light
In the cup of crystal bright,
Nectar that is sunny fire
Warm as warmest heart’s desire:
Pitcher never lacketh more,
Arm is never tired to pour:
Honey, water, milk, or wine
Mingle with the draught divine,
Drink it pure, or drink it not;
Each is free to choose his lot:
Am I old? or am I cold?
Only two have kissed me bold!

She was young and fair and gay
As that young and glorious day.

poem by James Thomson
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Saint Brandan

Saint Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhood of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again;
So late!—such storms!—The Saint is mad!

He heard, across the howling seas,
Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;
He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,
Twinkle the monastery-lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd—
And now no bells, no convents more!
The hurtling Polar lights are near'd,
The sea without a human shore.

At last—(it was the Christmas night;
Stars shone after a day of storm)—
He sees float past an iceberg white,
And on it—Christ!—a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,
Of hair that red and tufted fell—
It is—Oh, where shall Brandan fly?—
The traitor Judas, out of hell!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;
The moon was bright, the iceberg near.
He hears a voice sigh humbly: 'Wait!
By high permission I am here.

'One moment wait, thou holy man
On earth my crime, my death, they knew;
My name is under all men's ban—
Ah, tell them of my respite too!

'Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night—
(It was the first after I came,
Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite,
To rue my guilt in endless flame)—

'I felt, as I in torment lay
'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,
An angel touch my arm, and say:
Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!

''Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.
The Leper recollect, said he,
Who ask'd the passers-by for aid,
In Joppa, and thy charity.

'Then I remember'd how I went,
In Joppa, through the public street,
One morn when the sirocco spent
Its storms of dust with burning heat;

'And in the street a leper sate,
Shivering with fever, naked, old;
Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,
The hot wind fever'd him five-fold.

'He gazed upon me as I pass'd
And murmur'd: Help me, or I die!—
To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,
Saw him look eased, and hurried by.

'Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine,
What blessing must full goodness shower,
When fragment of it small, like mine,
Hath such inestimable power!

'Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I
Did that chance act of good, that one!
Then went my way to kill and lie—
Forgot my good as soon as done.

'That germ of kindness, in the womb
Of mercy caught, did not expire;
Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom,
And friends me in the pit of fire.

'Once every year, when carols wake,
On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,
Arising from the sinner's lake,
I journey to these healing snows.

'I stanch with ice my burning breast,
With silence balm my whirling brain.
Oh, Brandan! to this hour of rest
That Joppan leper's ease was pain.'—

Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;
He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer—
Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies!
The iceberg, and no Judas there!

poem by Matthew Arnold
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My Water Fountain

I drank glasses of water,
I drank water from office coolers.
Many people drank from water fountains.

I thought my thirst I could slake,
If I drank water from a cool lake.
Then I would would drink cold water,
From gushing waterfalls.

But much to my surprise,
I thirsted for all of Earth's water.

I couldn't fathom my inner self,
About slaking my thirst insatiable.
I couldn't come to grips about,
The deep waters of my life.

Was it my body? Or was it my soul?
Then I very quickly learned,
That this thirst for water that was burning in me,
Was my unending thirst for love

That everybody yearns for.
And everybody needs.
In quantities of glasses, coolers, waterfalls,
Lakes, oceans and seas.

poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Another Good Reason

(harley allen/carson chamberlain)
I woke up the other night
Lying on the floor
Right beside someone
Ive never seen before
She said my names juliet
And romeo you aint
Thats another good reason not to drink
Thats another good reason not to drink
When Im sober Im almost a saint
If I keep going on like this
Ill end up like ole hank
Thats another good reason not to drink
I cant go see my best friend
He said stay away
Just because of what I said
On his wedding day
He oughta call a sherman
Cause she looks just like a tank
Thats another good reason not to drink
Thats another good reason not to drink
When Im sober Im almost a saint
If I keep going on like this
Ill end up like ole hank
Thats another good reason not to drink
Im gonna sue to city
About that policeman
Last night as I left the bar
He stepped right on my hand
He said are you drunk or blind?
I said let me think.
Thats another good reason not to drink
Thats another good reason not to drink
When Im sober Im almost a saint
If I keep going on like this
Ill end up like ole hank
Thats another good reason not to drink
Thats another good reason not to drink
When Im sober Im almost a saint
If I keep going on like this
Ill end up like ole hank
Thats another good reason
Baby let me in Im freezing
Another good reason not to drink

song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Shivering Beggar

NEAR Clapham village, where fields began,
Saint Edward met a beggar man.
It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled,
The old man trembled for the fierce cold.

Saint Edward cried, “It is monstrous sin
A beggar to lie in rags so thin!
An old gray-beard and the frost so keen:
I shall give him my fur-lined gaberdine.”

He stripped off his gaberdine of scarlet
And wrapped it round the aged varlet,
Who clutched at the folds with a muttered curse,
Quaking and chattering seven times worse.

Said Edward, “Sir, it would seem you freeze
Most bitter at your extremities.
Here are gloves and shoes and stockings also,
That warm upon your way you may go.”

The man took stocking and shoe and glove,
Blaspheming Christ our Saviour’s love,
Yet seemed to find but little relief,
Shaking and shivering like a leaf.

Said the saint again, “I have no great riches,
Yet take this tunic, take these breeches,
My shirt and my vest, take everything,
And give due thanks to Jesus the King.”

The saint stood naked upon the snow
Long miles from where he was lodged at Bowe,
Praying, “O God! my faith, it grows faint!
This would try the temper of any saint.

“Make clean my heart, Almighty, I pray,
And drive these sinful thoughts away.
Make clean my heart if it be Thy will,
This damned old rascal’s shivering still!”

He stooped, he touched the beggar man’s shoulder;
He asked him did the frost nip colder?
“Frost!” said the beggar, “no, stupid lad!
’Tis the palsy makes me shiver so bad.”

poem by Robert Graves
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Prayer to St. Francis

'The eyes of the saint make all beauty holy and the hands of the saint consecrate everything they touch.' Thomas Merton

Look at me, O Saint,
sagging skin,
thinning hair, face
lined with roads
too far traveled.

Can you see
in me God's
beauty?

Then touch me!

O take into
your holy palms
my living heart.
Fill me with desire!

Make of me
a holy psalm,
consecrated host,
eternal fire.

poem by Steven Federle
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Invocation

Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all;
Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to
the call!
Fill fast, and fill full; 'gainst the goblet ne'er
sin;
Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost
rim:--
Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!

Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his
cares?
Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares?
Water sinks down below, in currents full slow;
But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:--
Welling up, till the brain overflow!

As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul,
Others golden, with music, revolve round the
pole;
So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines,
Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac's
Signs:--
Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!

Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment
brings;
It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant
sings.
Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows
dim;
Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded
rim:--
Fill up, every cup, to the brim!

poem by Herman Melville
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St. Adrian

to St. Adrian I give thanks
the dead leader of dead Roman ranks
a silent prayer to the Roman man
that calm man like deadly white hands
his steadfast wife even locked her door
when she thought he was like her no more

so a prayer to Adrian, saint of knights
a St. only after the lion beasts rites
to him be a morsel of honor, be it true
not more flames or a blunt corkscrew
to Saint Adrian I give thanks
the dead leader of dead Roman ranks

enter the night of Adrianus Incarsaurus
the holy, now, of Rome...MARTYR US!
to Saint Adrian, the saint, the beast
oh cover us, Adrian, from Abaddon and the beast
to Saint Adrian I give thanks
the dead leader of dead Roman ranks

sing your hymn with the name on your lips
or simply, silently 'Adrian' in felt tips
to him be a morsel of honor, be it true
not more flames, or unjust undo
to the leader of dead Roman ranks
to St. Adrian I give thanks

poem by Michael Cook
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kay Thompsons Jingle Bells

Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh
On dasher, on dancer, on prancer, on vixen
On comet, on cupid, on donner, on blitzen
Put on your bells, your christmas bells
Come on, were going for a sleigh ride
Christmas time is here again
Come on, were going for a sleigh ride
To spread good cheer again
From the top of the chimney to the top of the wall
Dash away, dash away, dash away all
Old saint nicholas, he took a flight
The moon was shining bright
Bring out the bells
Ol saint nick was riding through the sky
You should have seen those reindeer fly
Bring out the bells, its a holiday season
Bring out the bells, its a happy time
Bring out the bells, weve got a good reason
To ring the bells and hear those pretty bells chime

song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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