Once in Royal David's City
stood a lowly cattle shed,
where a mother laid her baby
you'd do well to remember
the things He later said
when you're stuffing yourselves
at the Christmas parties,
you'll laugh when I tell you
to take a running jump
you're missing the point
I'm sure does not need making;
that Christmas spirit
is not what you drink.

So how can you laugh
when your own mother's hungry
and how can you smile
when the reasons for smiling are wrong?
and if I messed up
your thoughtless pleasures,
remember, if you wish,
this is just a Christmas song.

Hey, Santa: pass us that bottle, will you?
 

Hope everybody's ringing on their own bell,
this fine morning
hope everyone's connected
to that long distance phone
old man, he's a mountain
old man, he's an island
old man, he's awaking – says,
"I'm going to call,
call all my children home".

Hope everybody's dancing to their own drum
this fine morning –
the beat of distant Africa
or a Polish factory town
old man, he's calling for his supper
he's calling for his whisky.
Calling for his sons and daughters, yeah –
calling, calling all his children round.

Sharp ears are tuned in to the drones
and chanters warming
mist blowing round some headland,
somewhere in your memory
everyone is from somewhere –
even if you've never been there
so take a minute to remember the part of you
that might be the old man calling me.

How many wars you fighting out there,
this winter's morning?
maybe it's always time
for another Christmas song.
Old man he's asleep now
got appointments to keep now
dreaming of his sons and daughters and proving,
proving that the blood is strong.
 

Through long December nights
we talk in words of rain or snow
while you, through chattering teeth,
reply and curse as you go
why not spare a thought this day
for those who have no flame
to warm their bones at Christmas time?
say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.

Now, as the last broad oak leaf falls,
we beg, consider this:
there's some who have no coin
to save for turkey, wine or gifts.
No children's laughter round the fire,
no family left to know
so lend a warm and helping hand –
say Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.

As holly pricks and ivy clings,
your fate is none too clear
the Lord may find you wanting,
let your good fortune disappear.
All homely comforts blown away
and all that's left to show
is to share your joy at Christmas time
with Jack Frost and the Hooded Crow.
  

Good morning Weathercock
how did you fare last night?
did the cold wind bite you,
did you face up to the fright
when the leaves spin from October
and whip around your tail?
did you shake from the blast,
did you shiver through the gale?

Give us direction;
the best of goodwill
put us in touch with your fair winds
sing to us softly
hum evening's song
tell us what the blacksmith
has done for you.

Do you simply reflect changes
in the patterns of the sky?
or is it true to say the weather
heeds the twinkle in your eye?
do you fight the rush of winter;
and hold snowflakes at bay?
do you lift the dawn sun
from the fields and help him on his way?

Good morning Weathercock
make this day bright
put us in touch with your fair winds
sing to us softly
hum evening's song
point the way to better days
we can share with you.

I flew in on the evening plane
is it such a good idea that I am here again?
and I could cut my cold breath with a knife
and taste the winter of another life.

A yellow cab from JFK, the long way round
I didn't mind: gave me thinking time before I ran aground
on rocky memories and choking tears
I believe it only rained round here in thirty years.

Now, it's the first snow on Brooklyn
and my cold feet are drumming
you don't see me in the shadows
from your cozy window frame
and last night, who was in your parlour
wrapping presents in the late hour
to place upon your pillow as the morning came?

Thin wind stings my face: pull collar up
I could  murder coffee  in a grande cup
no welcome deli; there's no Starbucks here
a dime for a quick phone call could cost me dear.

And the first snow on Brooklyn
paints a Christmas card upon the pavement
the cab leaves a disappearing trace
and then it's gone
and the snow covers my footprints,
deep regrets and heavy heartbeats
when you wake you'll never see
the spot that I was standing on.

Some things are best forgotten:
some are better half-remembered
I just thought that I might be
there on your, on your Christmas night
and the first snow on Brooklyn
makes a lonely road to travel –
cold crunch steps that
echo as the blizzard bites.
  

I believe in fires at midnight
when the dogs have all been fed
a golden toddy on the mantle –
a broken gun beneath the bed.
Silken mist outside the window
frogs and newts slip in the dark
too much hurry ruins a body
I'll sit easy, fan the spark
kindled by the dying embers of another working day.
Go upstairs: take off your makeup –
fold your clothes neatly away
me, I'll sit and write this love song
as I all too seldom do –
build a little fire this midnight.
It's good to be back home with you.