Classic Poem

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.