歌词
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge!
A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner!
Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire
Secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster
The cold within him froze his old features, made his eyes red, his thin lips blue
And spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice
He carried his own low temperature always about with him
He iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas
I wish to be left alone
Every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas,' on his lips
Should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart
I wish to be left alone
I don't make merry myself at Christmas