'A Christmas Carol'


From The Pickwick Papers, ch. 28, no. 10 (December 1836).


Dickens, Charles


The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, Chapter 28. Number 10 (December 1836), pp. 297-298. UVic Libraries, https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/generic_works/003c9690-060f-4e1a-bc46-712154b6a510?.


Chapman and Hall



UVic Libraries, Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/.


Bibliographic Citation

Dickens, Charles. 'A Christmas Carol' from The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Issue 10, Chapter 28 (December 1836): pp. 297-298. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol.


I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing,

Let the blossoms and buds be borne:

He wooes them amain with his treacherous rain,

And he scatters them ere the morn.

An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,

Nor his own changing mind an hour,

He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,

He’ll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,

He shall never be sought by me;

When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,

And care not how sulky he be!

For his darling child is the madness wild

That sports in fierce fever’s train;

And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,

As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light

Of the modest and gentle moon,

Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,

Than the broad and unblushing noon.

But every leaf awakens my grief,

As it lieth beneath the tree;

So let Autumn air be never so far,

It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout,

The heart, the true, and the bold;

A bumper I drain, and with might and main

Give three cheers for this Christmas old!

We’ll usher him in with a merry din

That shall gladden his joyous heart,

And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,

And in fellowship good, we’ll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide

One jot of his hard-weather scars;

They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace

On the cheeks of our bravest tars.

Then again I sing till the roof doth ring,

And it echoes from wall to wall –  

To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,

As the King of the Seasons all!




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