'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the league
Not a creature was stirring, not even a scout;
The sanies were hung by the dugout with care,
In hopes that our GM soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of autographs danced in their heads;
And mamma in her three-quarter sleeve, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the infield there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see who was the batter.
Away to the clubhouse I flew like a flash,
Tore open the lockers and pushed aside the trash.
The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of a new season to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny Cape League official dears,
With a little sharp driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be the Commish.
More rapid than a fastball his decisions they came,
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Brewster! Now Chatham, Now, Falmouth and Y-D!
On, Cotuit! on Harwich! on, Bourne and Orleans!
To the top of the Berm! And over the outfield wall!
Now bash away! bash away! bash away all!"
As the ball leaves the park quick as a wild hurricane fly,
When its meets with an wooden obstacle, swinging for the sky,
So up to the field house the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of draft boys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, as I wrote out this spoof
I imagined a new season with less rain on the roof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down to second St. Nicholas ran with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with Gatemen’s crushed soot;
[I couldn’t think of a better closer here than St. Nick himself…] A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."