Poetry Archives

Laugh, little bright-eyes, hang up your stocking;
      Don’t count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
            Knocking,
         Knocking at the door.

Through the key-hole slyly peeping,
Down the chimney careful creeping,
When the little folks are sleeping,
Comes he with his pack of presents.
Such a grin! but then so pleasant
You would never think to fear him;
And you can not, must not hear him.
He’s so particular, you know,
He’d just pick up his traps and go
If but one little eye should peep
That he thought was fast asleep.
Searching broomstick, nails, and shelf,
Till he finds the little stocking—
Softly lest you hear his knocking—
Smiling, chuckling to himself,
He fills it from his Christmas store,
And out he slips to hunt for more.

Then laugh, little bright-eyes, and hang up your stocking;
      Don’t count the days any more;
Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking,
            Knocking,
         Knocking at the door.