A Feel in the Chris’Mas
They’s a kind o’ _feel_ in the air, to me.
When the Chris’mas-times sets in.
That’s about as much of a mystery
As ever I’ve run ag’in!—
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight
And gineral health, I swear
They’s a _goneness_ somers I can’t quite state—
A kind o’ _feel_ in the air.
They’s a feel in the Chris’mas-air goes right
To the spot where a man _lives_ at!—
It gives a feller a’ appetite—
They ain’t no doubt about _that_!—
And yit they’s _somepin_'—I don’t know what—
That follers me, here and there,
And ha’nts and worries and spares me not—
A kind o’ feel in the air!
They’s a _feel_, as I say, in the air that’s jest
As blame-don sad as sweet!—
In the same ra-sho as I feel the best
And am spryest on my feet,
They’s allus a kind o’ sort of a’ _ache_
That I can’t lo-cate no-where;—
But it comes with _Chris’mas_, and no mistake!—
A kind o’ feel in the air.
Is it the racket the childern raise?—
W’y, _no_!—God bless 'em!—_no_!—
Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze—
Like my _own_ wuz, long ago?—
Is it the bleat o’ the whistle and beat
O’ the little toy-drum and blare
O’ the horn?—_No! no!_—it is jest the sweet—
The sad-sweet feel in the air.
