'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the rink
Not a player was fighting, not even for cinq;
The gloves were all hung by the lockers with care,
In hopes that St. Julien soon would be there;
The fans were all nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of Sugar Shawns danced in their heads;
And mamma in her jersey, and I in my toque,
Had just settled our brains in our long winter's cloak,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did come there,
But a miniature van and 23 huge players,
With a little old driver so lively he’d explode,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Clode.
More rapid than Rangers his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Bergy! now, Big Z! now Pasta and Krejci!
On, Kelly on, Kemper! on, Hayeser and Frankie!
"Now, Tuuks! now, Rino! now Quaider and Killer!
On, Loui! on, Spoons! on, Seids, Max, and Chiller!
"Now, Bells! now, Trots! now Marshy and Randy!
On, Goose! on, Kruger! on, Morrow and Landy!
To the top of the dot! to the top of the net!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away Brett!"
As leaves that before the wild Hurricanes fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the goalpost tumbling muffins they flew
With the net full of pucks, and St. Julien too—
And then, in a twinkling, I thought of Gillette
The trucks coming in with the ice and the net.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down from the hallway Rene came with a bound.
He was dressed all in wool, from his head to his vest,
And his mic was all tarnished as he sang loud with zest;
A bundle of joy, he sang both nation’s hymns,
And sang from his heart to his eyes and his limbs.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up with a smile,
And the ‘stache on his lip was as brown as his argyle;
The pump of his fist he made twice after he’d sing,
And then hold out his hand and admire his ring;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
The ref spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And dropped his black puck; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, the players they rose;
Ref sprang to his skates, to the teams gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he skated out of sight—
“Happy hockey to all, and to all a good fight!”
