LibriVox volunteers bring you 10 recordings of:
“Old Santeclaus” by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)
This was the fortnightly poetry project for December 1st to December 15th, 2013.
Clement Clarke Moore (July 15, 1779 – July 10, 1863) was an American Professor of Oriental and Greek Literature, as well as Divinity and Biblical Learning, at the General Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Church. He is the author of the yuletide poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas”, which later became famous as “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”. This poem seems to be a ‘moral’ version of “The NIght Before Christmas”.
This project is catalogued at:
LibriVox and Internet Archive.
The poem text can also be found at this address.
My recording of this fortnight’s poem has a running time of 2m 17s.
You can listen to it now, by clicking the following play button;
The entire project, featuring all 10 readers of this week’s poem, is also available at this link.
The zip file size is 10MB with a total running time of 20m 33s.
All the files contained inside the zip are mp3, all with a bitrate of 64kb.
Book Coordinator: David Lawrence
Meta Coordinator: David Lawrence
Old Santeclaus with much delight
His reindeer drives this frosty night,
O’er chimney-tops, and tracks of snow,
To bring his yearly gifts to you.
The steady friend of virtuous youth,
The friend of duty, and of truth,
Each Christmas eve he joys to come
Where love and peace have made their home.
Through many houses he has been,
And various beds and stockings seen;
Some, white as snow, and neatly mended,
Others, that seemed for pigs intended.
Where e’er I found good girls or boys,
That hated quarrels, strife and noise,
I left an apple, or a tart, Or wooden gun, or painted cart.
To some I gave a pretty doll,
To some a peg-top, or a ball;
No crackers, cannons, squibs, or rockets,
To blow their eyes up, or their pockets.
No drums to stun their Mother’s ear,
Nor swords to make their sisters fear;
But pretty books to store their mind
With knowledge of each various kind.
But where I found the children naughty,
In manners rude, in temper haughty,
Thankless to parents, liars, swearers,
Boxers, or cheats, or base tale-bearers,
I left a long, black, birchen rod,
Such as the dread command of God
Directs a Parent’s hand to use
When virtue’s path his sons refuse.