'Twas the night before Winter Veil, when all through the land
Not a creature was stirring, not even in Northrend;
The stockings were hung by the brazier with care,
In hopes that Lich King soon would be there;
The Scourge were nestled all snug in their tomb,
While dreaming of abominations and thier wonderful fumes;
And mamma in her rotting flesh, and I in my flesh cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the wastelands there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
When, what to my wandering eye was getting larger,
But a ice covered sleigh, and eight tiny deathchargers,
With a creepy old driver, so morbid and shrill,
I knew in a moment it must be Arthas Menethil.
More rapid than dragonflight his horses they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Deathward! now, Damned! now, Plaguebringer and Vile!
On, Cryptkeeper! on Cutthroats! on, Dire and Bile!
To the top of Icecrown! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
So up to the house-top the deathchargers they flew,
With the sleigh full of plague, and the Lich King too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The thunder and destruction of each firey hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney the Lich King came with a hell hound.
He was dressed all in plate, from his head to his foot,
And his armor were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
Frostmourne he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a deathbringer ready to attack.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his frown,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a crown;
A raise of his sword and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had everything to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled us with fear; then turned with a jerk,
He mounted his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a deathbringing missle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Merry Winter Veil to all, and you're all going to die."