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 !
How can the Midwinter feast be here, So far from the middle of Winter ?, When Autumn’s leaves are barely down, And frost has yet to hit the town ? How can the shortest day be near So far from the chill of Winter ? We feast on pudding by the wedge Before we’ve eaten up our veg. But wait…the snowdrops soon appear In what was once still Winter – If Advent sees the last of Fall, Then Burns Night sees the Springtime call. The thaw before the freeze each year Will warm and squeeze the Winter – We’ve brandy butter on our snouts Before we’ve eaten up our sprouts.
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.
Where’s my briefcase ? What a caper, What a stupid thing to lose. Therein lay my evening paper, Now I cannot read the news. Whoops, there goes my blue Bic biro, Gosh, there goes my travel card – Not much pickings here, I know, It’s not a case for Scotland Yard.
So who are you, thief or finder ? Did I cast a wealthy look ? Could you post my gas reminder And return my library book ? Just ignore my works’ outpouring Bureaucratic paperchase. So, you see, I’m pretty boring, Pretty much an average case.
You’re filling the halls from the gods to the stalls, You’re shaking the walls with your blast – You cry your encores as you cheer yourselves hoarse For the grand tour de force of the cast. And how they deserve all the plaudits you serve, For they are the verve of the play; But spare just a few for their hard-working crew, For we perform too, in our way.
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…
It’s hard, but when we lose, We have to lose, We must concede, to start to heal the pain. It’s madness to refuse To quit the pews, When all the others know that we are slain. We must not blame the news, Or voters’ views – We had our chance, we fought a long campaign.
We stand and fall by word-of-mouth, From Shetland North to Lizard South. The terms are strict, the seats are leased, From Dyfed West to Yarmouth East.
We are not who they choose, They’ve shifted muse, And telling them they’re wrong is just insane. We’ll only raise a bruise Whose pus must ooze – And we shall never wash away the stain. The public shall accuse Our desp’rate ruse – In ev’ry sense, our protest is in vain.
And left or right, and right or left, Impugn us all, but not of theft. And win or lose, and lose or win, The sun shall rise, the world shall spin.
We have to pay our dues And lace our shoes, And let the winning side begin their reign. It’s hard, but when we lose, We have to lose, We have to stop the fight, to fight again.
Rhyming Couplets 