T’were the Night Before Christmas

#Barrelhouse 107 • 6:00 p.m. Dec. 24, 2025

T’were the night before Christmas, and all through the hollow,
Not a critter was crawling, not even the hogs a-wallow
The snow fell like feathers on Lynchburg that night,
While the moon overhead shimmered pure and white

The boots by the doorstep were muddy and worn,
From a long day of work, early that morn;
The rifle hung quiet above the mantle with care,
Its walnut stock polished with years of wear

The stills at the distillery whispered soft in their sleep,
Guarding barrels of whiskey stacked high and deep;
And the scent of sweet mash drifted warm on the breeze,
Mingling oak, smoke, and vanilla ’mong the tall oak trees.

Mama in her kerchief, and I in my hat,
Were sippin’ on whiskey and havin’ a chat;
When out in the yard came a clatter so stout,
I sprang from my rocker to see what it’s ’bout.

Through frost on the window I spied somethin’ bright,
A wagon with eight mules, white as moonlight;
And a jolly old driver with a beard long and gray,
Who hollered “Merry Christmas, to Lynchburg, I say!”

His boots were well-traveled, his coat smelled of pine,
And he carried a sack filled with bottles so fine;
He set ’em by chimneys with a wink and a grin,
Then mounted his wagon to ride off again.

Up the hillside he rode, leavin’ hoofprints in snow,
Past the rickhouses slumberin’ under a moonlit glow.
And I heard him exclaim as he dashed out of sight
“May your Christmas be warm, and your whiskey just right!”