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Christmas comes but once a year;
ah, so it does! But no good cheer
of which we hear from all at home
kindles the hearts of those who roam
so far abroad as I:
and yet it’s not so far to fly
from England to Singapore,
this island known as Asia’s door
on which I am doomed to spend
another Christmas yet. Oh wend,
you weary warriors brave,
your way back to the icy cave
of England, the fairest of all lands
when Summer’s high: and when the hands
and feet are cold - this time of year -
yet still is it endowed with cheer
that wassailing and warm log fires,
church bells ringing and hot mince pies
bring to the happy Christmas scene.
But here am I and still between
my home and me thousands of miles
expand across the globe. What trials
confront me no-one can know.
Pass quickly years I pray! To go
back to my homeland once again
for Christmastide, to sing refrains
from ancient carols, to tread
upon soft white snowy beds,
these are the things for which I long -
I seem to miss them - is that wrong?
Christmas comes but once a year;
and I must hope for a bright new year.