I don’t remember being told About old Father Christmas – He’s just someone I’ve always known. Popping down the chimney That we didn’t even have, With a candy cane or xylophone. It somehow seemed so rational, To fly from Perth to Honolulu, Via Cape Town and Cologne – But strangest yet, I never even Thought of how he was a stranger, All the year alone.
So when my parents placed An empty chair upto the turkey, I assumed it was for him. And when a neighbour came instead, Or refugee, or homeless man – I didn’t find it grim. As long as he possessed a beard, Then I believed in Father Christmas – Even with a pseudonym. He wore a diff’rent face, each year – But so did Mother Goose, And Peter Pan, and Tiny Tim.
For all the gifts he gave, Did he ever get one in return, From Moscow to the Amazon ? Each year, I’d long to thank him, But the meal would soon be over And my moment never seized upon. Yet in my mind, he’d wink, and say, “Don’t worry, I already know.” And then he would be gone. We never get to give a gift to him, But ev’ry year, Instead we pay it forward, pass it on.
I’m sorry, kids, I cannot lie, That flash you see across the sky On this, the night of Christmas Eve, Is not a magic flying sleigh, However much you may believe. I’m sorry, kids, I cannot lie, The laws of physics still hold sway.
But do you know, kids, what you see ? That dashing light, what can it be ? The ISS is flying by – Or rather, falling, always falling, Falling through our Christmas sky. And far more magic than a sleigh, This shining star on Christmas Day.
Sketch of the bas relief on the Altar of Domitius, showing different stages of a census (the original is one long strip, here split in two. Judging from the armour, it likely dates from just before the Marian Reforms of 9894 HE.
The Counting Carol
[parts in italics are sung by all.]
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – The Romans go from house to house To count each man and dog and mouse, And grub and flea and bug and louse, In city, plain and mountain. And when they knock upon our door To tally up our stock and store, Then what shall be our docket score ? But hark, [knock knock] But hark, [knock knock] But hark, I hear them knocking…
I count twelve notes that make a scale. So one last time, let us regale ! Twelve are the jurors, twelve are the scribes, Twelve are the inches and twelve are the tribes, And after a twelvemonth’s high society, Then twelve are the steps to dry sobriety.
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ![/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six the kingdoms of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive ! Five are my fingers, five are my toes, Five is the starfish and five is the rose. A hedgerow rose ? Well, I suppose. There’s always five on one of those. Five are the petals and the leaves she grows, Attracting the bees and attracting the nose.
Four are the forces, I propose, Forces nature shall have it be – Electromagnetic and gravity, And the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction – Bio, chemo and physio learning. Three the dimensions through which we’re turning, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind. Two, oh two, you’re one behind, You’re second-best at bestest.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest. For one is one, the last and first, The very best, the very worst. For one is one, is most perverse – The all-enclosing universe.
This is intended to be a cumulitive carol, like Green Grow The Rushes, Oh or that other one whose name I can’t recall. It starts from 1 and works its way upto 12, with cut-down verses to speed things along (they’re only sung in full when they’re introduced and on the final time). Thus the penultimate verse is like this:
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – But hark, [knock knock] But hark, [knock knock] But hark, I hear them knocking…
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ! [/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six the kingdoms of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive !
Four are the forces, I propose, With the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest.
I am aware that although their are twelve notes in an octave (not counting the repeat of the root-note an octave higher), only seven or so will be used in any given scale – well, except the chromatic scale of course. Yes, that’s it, that’s what I really meant, I wasn’t being ignorant at all…
I’m also aware that the six-kingdoms view of life is probably out of date. But who cares, it’s Christmas !
The churches used to ring-in Christmas Day, With peels that rolled across the shires, And towns with out-competing spires. They may chime still, but who’s to say ? Amid our busy, noisy lives, The traffic and the nine-to-fives, We’ve little use for summonses to pray. For all the bells may toll the blues, We never come to fill the pews – But if we hear them chiming, that’s okay. And if we don’t, well, never fear, There’s plenty other bells to hear: On doors and tills and phones, they ring away. And even though we see no snow, And even though we see no deer, We cannot help but hear the ever-tinkle of the sleigh.
What shall we get for London, Ingrid, Now that the Yuletide’s near ? What shall we get for London, Ingrid ? We’re almost out of year.
What do they want in London, Ingmar, The city that has it all ? What do they need in London, Ingmar ? Can’t we give them a call ?
We want it to be a surprise, dear Ingrid, We want it to impress. We want to surprise old London, Ingrid, We don’t want them to guess.
What did we get them last year, Ingmar ? What did we get them then ? What did we think of last year, Ingmar, And can’t we get that agen ?
Last year we gave them a pine-tree, Ingrid, Last year we gave them a spruce. They’re surely expecting a pine-tree, Ingrid, We can’t this year, by deuce !
But surely they loved our pine-tree, Ingmar, Surely they loved our spruce ? And won’t they need a new tree, Ingmar ? It only has one use !
It’s true, they loved our pine-tree, Ingrid, It’s true they loved it there. They proudly placed our pine-tree, Ingrid, In Trafalgar Square.
Then let’s give a tree to London, Ingmar, A symbol of our rebirth. Then let’s give a tree to London, Ingmar: From Oslo – peace on Earth !
It’s just such a shame how we go on to treat this gift each year…
“There came wise men from the East to Jerusalem, saying…we have seen his star in the East.”
– Matthew 2:1-2
When we first saw the star, we knew. The whole of our lives we were waiting for signs, And here was just such a clue – And oh, what a clue ! How she shimmers and shines. What is her news ? A King of the Jews ! And just in time for the midwinter feast ! A saviour is born, So set off at dawn, And follow His star in the east.
As we followed that star, we thought That our route would take us a strange way yet – For if Judea were sought, Then why does she lead us on into Tibet ? But on we must trek With the star as our check, Until the ocean was stopping us dead. So we chartered a ship To continue our trip, Because she was waiting ahead.
So we followed the star by sea – Always due east would she lead our band, Until we wise men three Were finally washed on an unknown land. And on we went ’Cross the continent And strange were the people and customs upon. Then at the next moat We hadn’t a boat, So we build one – and so we sailed on.
And we followed the star some more, Across the African sands we were coming, Until at last at the Jewish shore We reached the land for which we were plumbing. We took from our camels Fine skins and enamels, And spices and lapis, all fit for a priest, And strange silks and feathers We’d gathered together From all of the lands of the east.
We knew we could trust her, we sighed, She brought us all safe where we needed to be. Now where is the child ? we cried, Where is the one who we travelled to see ? We told the bazaar How we followed the star To the King of the Jews, of whom we bespeak. Then up spoke an urchin – “How long you been searching ? They just nailed that guy up last week.”
Twelve days waiting in a barn for them, we were, For two weeks, nearly, with the horses. Two weeks waiting for a bit of gold and myrrh, And a warning not to fall to Herod’s forces.
The shepherds came by early, but they couldn’t stay for long: As they’d left their sheep all grazing in the pasture. (I hoped the wolves weren’t prowling, nor the north-wind blowing strong, And their truancy not noticed by their master.)
Surely now the census had been tallied up and done, There must have been some room back in the inn ? But there we slept, and waited, till the angel told us “Run”… …Or was it we went home, back to our kin ?
And that, my lad, is how you spent a fortnight in a manger, Upon the hay – or so we’ve always spun. They must have used the Julian, those fine-attired strangers, While you were pure Gregorian, my son !
The days are so short, late of the year – Won’t you come on in ? When the sun is down, and the frost is near, And the gales begin. But there’s always a shelter under our gable, There’s always an extra chair at the table For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able To pay us with only a grin.
The weather gets cold, this time of year – We’re chilled to the skin. It gets so hard to volunteer And rattle the tin. But there’s always a welcome here in our home To help turn the grey to polychrome, For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam, While the wheels of fortune spin.
The season gets busy, every year, And we just can’t win, With the thanks so small, and the price so dear, And our patience thin. But there’s always a place at the table that’s set For the unbidden guest coming-in from the wet, In time to remind what we often forget: That there’s always room at the inn.
Rhyming Couplets 