December is a-coming, dear,
The thought of it again
Brings back sad token,
Of a by-gone year.
But now that I’ve known you,
How quick those sad things flee;
Dear Melancholy, no longer does he trouble me,
Because I am no longer blue.
If every Christmastide you I had,
No cause have I then to be sad;
But then, though I, suppose,
Next year no longer are you close.
Then I will be,
‘Gain will bore