Don't look like a pedagogue, do I, my lad?
And indeed I am not an Orbilius Plagosus,
Like him who made juvenile FLACCUS so sad.
How well the Venusian knows us!
Under the Mistletoe Bough
_He_ never kissed maid, but somehow
Our Dickensish Season he seemed to divine
With his fondness for friendship, and laughter, and wine.

No, boy, I don't greatly believe in the birch,
(Though sometimes my _bâton_ must play--on rogues' shoulders.)
Love's rather too apt to be left in the lurch
By Orbilian smiters and scolders.
Under the Mistletoe Bough
A kiss is best treatment, I trow.
A salute from the lips of your _Punch_ you'll not spurn,
And the young guests around you shall each take a turn.

The outlook, my lad, seems a little bit drear,
There are clouds and storm-shadows about the horizon,
But--well, you're a chubby and rosy Young Year
As ever your PUNCHY set eyes on.
Under the Mistletoe Bough
You look mighty kissable--now.
So here goes another, for luck like, my dear,
As we wish everybody A Happy New Year!

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