The Merry Christmas of the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe

Song: Old Woman; air, "Comin' through the Rye."

 
If a widdy's with her biddies,
Living in a shoe,
If a widdy's work unstiddies,
What'll widdy do?
 

(Heads appear as before.)

 
Every mother loves her biddies;
Many a one have I;
But where get gifts to fill their fists,
When I've no gold to buy?
 

Aha! (Heads disappear quick.)

 
There is a sprite oft comes this night,
Whom children love full well;
But what's his name, and where's his hame,
He does not always tell.
 

(Heads appear as before.)

 
Lads and lassies know good Santa,
With presents not a few;
Would he were here, my chicks to cheer,
Living in a shoe!
 

Aha! (Heads disappear.)

 
Well, I'll get in, and make the children warm.
Tucked in their beds, they're always safe from harm.
And in their dreams, perhaps, such gifts will rise
As wakeful, wretched poverty denies.
 

(Disappears behind shoe.)

Enter cautiously, R., Santa Claus; his fabled dress is hidden by a long domino, or "waterproof;" he has, swung about his neck, a tin kitchen, on which he grinds an imaginary accompaniment to his song.

 
Santa. "You'd scarce expect one of my age" —
For gray hair is the symbol of the sage —
To play at "hide-and-seek," to your surprise.
Here's honest Santa Claus, in rough disguise.
But 'tis all right, as I will quick explain,
For I've a mystic project "on the brain."
I've dropped down chimneys all this blessed night,
Where warmth and comfort join to give delight;
I've filled the stockings of the merry elves,
Who, to fond parents, are rich gifts themselves;
And now I've come, resolved to make a show
In that old mansion with the copper toe,
Where dwells a dame, with children great and small,
Enough to stock a school, or crowd a hall.
 
 
If they are worthy of our kind regard,
Christmas shall bring to them a rich reward.
So I have donned for once a meaner dress,
To personate a beggar in distress.
If to my wants they lend a listening ear,
The rough old shoe shall glow with Christmas cheer:
If they are rude, and turn me from the door,
Presto! I vanish, and return no more.
 

Song: Santa Claus; air, "Them blessed Roomatics."

 
My name's Johnny Schmoker, and I am no joker;
I don't in my pockets no greenbacks perceive.
For, what with high dressing in fashions distressing,