Und he put his arms aroun' me Und hug so close und tight, I hear der gclock a-tickin' All der balance of der night! . . . Someding make me feel so funny Ven I say to my Katrine "Let us go und fill der stockin's Of dot leedle boy of mine."
Veil.--Ve buyed a leedle horses Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring, Und a leedle fancy jay-bird-- Eef you vant to hear 'im sing You took 'im by der top-knot Und yoost blow in behine-- Und dot make much _spectakel_-- For dot leedle boy of mine!
Und gandles, nuts and raizens-- Unt I buy a leedle drum Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle Ven der Gristmas morning come! Und a leedle shmall tin rooster Dot vould crow so loud und fine Ven he sqveeze 'im in der morning, Dot leedle boy of mine!
Und--vile ve vas a-fixin'-- Dot leedle boy vake out! I fought he been a-dreamin' "Kriss Kringle" vas about,-- For he say--"_Dot's him!--I see 'im_ _Mit der shtars dot make der shine_!" Und he yoost keep on a-gryin'-- Dot leedle boy of mine,--
Und gottin' vorse und vorser-- Und tumble on der bed! So--ven der doctor seen id, He kindo' shake his head, Und feel his pulse--und visper "Der boy is a-dyin'." You dink I could _believe_ id?-- _Dot leedle boy of mine_?
I told you, friends--dot's someding, Der last time dot he speak Und say "_Goot-bye, Kriss Kringle_!" --Dot make me feel so veak I yoost kneel down und drimble, Und bur-sed out a-gryin' "_Mein Goit, mein Gott im Himmel_!-- _Dot leedle boy, of mine_!"
Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas! . . . Eef dot leedle boy vould _liff'd_-- No deefer-en'! for Heaven vas His leedle Gristmas-gift! . . . Und der rooster, und der _gandy_, Und me--und my Katrine-- Und der jay-bird--is a-vaiting For dot leedle boy of mine.
Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,-- Not the one of History, Who, with flaming tongue and pen, Scathes the vanities of men; Not the one whose biting wit Cuts pretense and etches it On the brazen brow that dares Filch the laurel that it wears: Not the Donn Piatt whose praise Echoes in the noisy ways Of the faction, onward led By the statesman!--But, instead, Give the simple man to me,-- Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! Branches of the old oak tree, Drape him royally in fine Purple shade and golden shine! Emerald plush of sloping lawn Be the throne he sits upon! And, O Summer sunset, thou Be his crown, and gild a brow Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed By the breezes, mellow-palmed As Erata's white hand agleam On the forehead of a dream.-- So forever rule o'er me, Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!