'Twas the mine before Christmas, when all through the base
Not a creature was stirring, not even dear Ace;
The stockings were hung by the teleporter with care,
In hopes that St. Chief soon would be there;
The raiders were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sandwiches danced in their heads;
And Le in his bow-tie, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long miner's nap,
When out in the base there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bunk to see what was the matter.
Away to the comms panel I flew like a flash,
Tore open the cameras and threw up a hatch.
The light on the breast of the newly-mined Rock,
Gave a look of hard work done ('Twas quite a shock),
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature ship and eight tiny mine-ers,
With a little old pilot so lively and neat,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Chief.
More rapid than rockwhales his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Ben! now, Fush! now Xiron and Lair!
On, Jamie! on, Will! on, Cirevam and Cyrem!
To the top of the base! to the top of the wall!
Now post away! post away! post away all!"
As rocks that before the wild rock monster fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the teleporter the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of crystals , and St. Chief there too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the base
The cursing and blinding of Cirevam's dear face.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the hatch St. Chief came with such sound.
He was dressed all in teal, from his head to his foot,
And his suit was all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of crystals he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a miner just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his armour, how merry!
His life support flashing, bright red like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a mock,
And the beard on his chin was as grey as a rock;
The stump of a ciggy he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his suit like a wreath;
He had a broad beard and a robotic left arm
That whirred when he laughed, prepared to do harm.
He was thin and miserable, a right stroppy old elf,
And I hid when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know that he wanted me dead;
He swore to himself, then went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And flicking his finger up (the middle one too),
And giving a yell, up the chimney he flew;
He sprang to his ship, to his team swore a little,
And away they all shot like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him yell, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good mine!”