It was the night before Christmas, when all through the house.

It was the night before Christmas,

by Clement Clark Moore.

It was the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar plums danced in their

heads, and Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap had just

settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash tore open the shutter and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave the luster of midday to objects below.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles, his coursars, they came, and he whistled and shouted and called

them by name.

Now Dasher, now dancer, Now Prancer and Vixen,

On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen.

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,

Now Dash away, Dash away, dash away all.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house top the courser's they flew,

with a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too.

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