A Scottish Night Before Christmas.
By P.B. Phillips
Christmas in the Glen
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the glen.
Not a creature was stirring,
Except for Rab the Robber,
and his mate Thieving Ken.
They hid their faces with stockings,
and wore gloves with care.
With hopes of catching the Nicholas’s away,
at the evening winter fair.
But we wee children were home alone,
and certainly not nestled in our beds.
We saw the beastly robbers,
and determined to kick-in their beastly heads.
Martha in her onesie,
me in PJ’s and tin-starred hat.
We nipped out to the garage,
for a crowbar, hammer and clubbing baseball bat.
When out on the lawn,
there arose such a din and clatter.
We popped our heads out the window,
to see what was a matter.
The moon gave light,
as it peeped from behind night's cloud.
And we could see clearly,
what had caused all that noise so loud.
What sight we saw,
it drove my wonder and fear.
A red sleigh driven by a drunk,
and eight tiny demonic reindeer.
The fat driver so angry,
and all covered in red.
I assumed he'd splatted one of the robbers,
who must be quite dead.
More rabid than a mad hatter,
and quicker than you might think.
He peeled off Rab’s jacket to reveal a shirt,
all bloodied bright red-pink.
‘We got another one’
bellowed the jolly sleigh driver.
‘Told you so boys,
now, you all owe me a fiver’
‘On Dancer, on Prancer,
Donna and Blitzen.
Gore the other blighter Comet, Cupid,
now trample him Vixen!’
Ken also met his end,
in the cold Christmas moon light.
I can confirm it,
‘twas a terrible sight.
Neither Martha or I, could recount fully,
what happened next.
To this very day I remain confused,
and honestly, quite vexed.
Our hero cracked a whip
and the sleigh flew up high.
He threw us a little present
and disappeared with a blood curdling cry.
When Mum and Dad came home,
dropped off by the bus.
They had endless questions and quizzes,
about all of the fuss.
But how could we explain,
Martha and I.
About the mini red sleigh man,
who flew in the sky.
Mum called the highland police,
phoning nine nine nine.
But the pubs were still open,
so they took their sweet highland time.
Eventually the chief copper said,
‘Have no worry, no fear.
There is no crime answer,
it’s all perfectly clear’
‘There’s a vigilante that protects our hills,
moors and glen.
And this Christmas Eve he’s done for Rab the Robber,
and his mate Thieving Ken.’
An English Village on Christmas Eve.
By P.B. Phillips
An English Village on Christmas Eve.
First flurry flutters, in the moon-misted sky
Echos in the oaks, no owl tonight will fly.
Love words whispered, into hooded heads
Soon they’ll be home, snuggled in eider beds.
The choir chatter out the church, off to decant the decanter
Sharing promises of a future visit and other cheerful banter.
Across the village lights clicked to off, once red candles flicker
Some open Dickens to read, whilst other couples bicker.
Senior folks are driven home, the cobbles are too slick for the old
Others return from delivering gifts, walking in the cold
Twinkle frosted toes, stooled on wood fire’s fender
Glow in Nat’s Christmas songs, with tones so mild and tender.
Sip spiced hot chocolate, or nibble on your date
Sit your wife on your lap, and assure her it’s not too late.
Westminster chimes toll sixteen notes, from the parlour clock
Now time to see if you had too much to drink, far too much to f…