C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Mahogany-Tree

By William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–1863)

CHRISTMAS is here:

Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill,—

Little care we;

Little we fear

Weather without,—

Shelter 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,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,

Boys, as we sit;

Laughter and wit

Flashing so free.

Life is but short;

When we are gone,

Let them sing on

Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,

Happy as this;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!

We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,

Lurks at the gate:

Let the dog wait;

Happy we’ll be!

Drink, every one;

Pile up the coals,

Fill the red bowls,

Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup—

Friend, art afraid?

Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;

Empty it yet:

Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!

Life and its ills,

Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite:

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree.

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