If I were Santa’s little boy
(If there’s a family
Of Santa Clauses in the sky
Or where their home may be),
If I were Santa’s oldest son
(I only hope that he has one!)
And my papa should say to me,
“What Christmas present, son, would be
The very thing you’d like to see
Within your stocking Christmas Day?”
I wouldn’t stop to think, (would you?)
“I want to drive the sleigh!”
And then when Christmas Week had come,
At nearly dawn on Christmas Day,
I’d load the sleigh with doll and drum;
And find where the reindeer were tied,
And hitch them quickly up, and I’d
Shout very loudly, “Clear the way!”
And crack the whip and drive the sleigh
Down from the Pole and past the clang
Of loud icicles in a row,
Blown by the wind, to where the gang
Lives, in our street, and then I’d shout,
While frightened heads of boys stuck out
From opened windows, in surprise,
With tousled hair and sleepy eyes,
I’d shout out loudly so that they
Could hear each single word I’d say,
“Hey, Dasher, Dancer!
Run as hard now as you can, sir!
Stop your balking
When I’m talking!
We must fill each Christmas stocking
In a hundred million places!
Dasher, Dancer, mind your paces!
Don’t you dare to break the traces!”
Then I’d shake the reins and shout
To milkmen that might be about,
“Clear the way
For Santa’s sleigh,
Because I’m driving it to-day!”