Ther's a pitch I've 'eard w'ich I call absurd,
   An' I reckon 'e ain't no loss;
Fer I s'pose 'e's dead, is the cove thet said
   Thet the rollin' stones miss moss.
Since I wus young I 'ave 'umped th' drum,
   An' I've battled along on me own,
An' ther's many a gait thet never kin rate,
   With the roll uv a rollin' stone.

Ther's curious ways thet me Christmas days
   Is passed; but takin' 'em all
Ther' was some uv 'em glad an' one uv 'em sad,
   An' some thet I can't recall.
Fer times ther' were when I started fair
   With a Christmas eve on me ear,
An' a 'ole week's slake with never a brake
   Till the dawn uv the bright Noo Year.

An' ther's one, long past, thet I thought me last
   In the Gawd fergot out back;
When I trudged an' cursed at me ragin' thirst
   On a blasted northern track.
But I seen it thro'.  'Twas the worst I knew,
   Fer out uv the lot I think
'Twas the only blime Christmas time
   Thet I spent without a drink.

An' I wander roun' in bush or town,
   In an aimless sorter way;
But I always scheme to strike a seam
   On the gloryus Christmas Day.
Fer folks is free, that day ye see,
   An' a chance I never lose,
Its peace on earth an' ne'er a dearth
   Uv goodwill or uv booze.

Then 'ere's a health to the man uv wealth
   Thet gorges 'imself with goose,
No such fer me, fer I'd sooner be
   Awanderin' on the loose.
Since I wus young I've 'umped me drum
   An' battled along on me own;
Fer there's many a gait thet never ken rate
   With the roll uv a rollin' stone.

"C.J.D."
The Critic, 14 December 1901, p52