A Christmas Carol,
   "I Care Not for Spring on His Fickle Wing" (1838)
        Sung with enthusiastic applause
                   at the
              New York Concerts
                    by
               Mr. H. Russell
    The Words from the Posthumous Papers of the
               Pickwick Club
                  by "BOZ"
             [Charles Dickens]
The Music Composed and most cordially dedicated to
        Miss Sarah Upjohn & Mrs. Crittenton
                  of Albany
                    by
               Henry Russell
                [1812-1900]

New York, NY: Hewitt & Jacques, 239 Broadway
[Source: 063/023@Levy]

  "This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking around him, "this is
indeed, comfort."  "Our invariable custom," replied Mr.
Wardle.  "Every body sits down with us on Christmas eve,
as you see them now -- servants and all; and here we wait
till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and
while away the time with forfeits and old stories.  Trundle,
my boy, rake up the fire."  Up flew the bright sparks in
myriads as the legs were stirred, and the deep red blaze sent
forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the farthest corner
of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.
  "Come," said Mr. Wardle, "a song ... a Christmas song.
I'll give you one, in default of a better."  "Bravo," said
Mr. Pickwick.  "Fill up," cried Wardle.  "It will be two
hours good, before you see the bottom of the bowl through
the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all round, and
now for the song."  Thus saying, the merry old gentlemen, in
a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced, without more ado.

1.
I care not for Spring, on his fickle wing
  Let the blossoms and buds be borne
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
  And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
  Or his own changing mind and hour.
He'll smile in your face, and, with wry gimace,
  He'll wither your youngest flower.

CHORUS
Let the summer sun to his bright home run,
  He shall never be sought by me;
When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
  And I care not how sulky he be.

2.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
  Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,
  Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakes my grief,
  As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
  It by no means agrees with me.

(CHORUS)

3.
But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
  The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
  Give three cheers for this Christmas old.
We'll usher him in with a merry din
  That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,
  And in fellowship good, we'll part.

(CHORUS)

4.
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
  One jot of his hard weather scars.
They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace
  On the cheeks of our harvest tars.
Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,
  And it echoes from wall to wall --
To the stout old wight, fair weclome to night,
  As the King of the Seasons all!

(CHORUS)