They's a kind o’ feel in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets in.
That's about as much of a mystery
As ever I've run ag'in!—
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight
And gineral health, I swear
They's a goneness somers I can n't quite state —
A kind o’ feel in the air.
They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right
To the spot where a man lives at!—
It gives a feller a’ appetite —
They ai n't no doubt about that!—
And yit they's somepin’ — I do n't know what —
That follers me, here and there,
And ha'nts and worries and spares me not —
A kind o’ feel in the air!
They's a feel, as I say, in the air that's jest
As blame-don sad as sweet!—
In the same ra-sho as I feel the best
And am spryest on my feet,
They's allus a kind o’ sort of a’ ache
That I can n't lo-cate no-where;—
But it comes with Chris'mas, and no mistake!—
A kind o’ feel in the air.
Is it the racket the childern raise?—
W'y, no!— God bless‘ em!— no!—
Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze —
Like my own wuz, long ago?—
Is it the bleat o’ the whistle and beat
O’ the little toy-drum and blare
O’ the horn?— No! no!— it is jest the sweet —
The sad-sweet feel in the air.