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The original version of the following poem was first published in Troy, New York on December 23, 1823 and is credited to a Scot - Major Henry Livingston Jr.

'TWAS 'E NICHT AFORE CHRISTMAS

'Twas 'e nicht afore Christmas, fan a' thro' 'e hoose Nae a creatur wis stirrin', nae e'en a wee moose; 'E hose war a' hung by 'e lum wi' care In howp 'at St Nicholas seen wud be 'ere;

'E bairns war nestl'd a' snug in 'eir beds, File visions o' sweeties danced in 'eir heids; An' mither in 'er kerchief, an' me in me kep, Hid jist settl'd in tae a lang winter's nap,

Fan oot on 'e gairden 'ere arose sic a stramash, Aw sprang fae 'e bed tae see fit wis 'e matter.

Awa' tae 'e windae Aw flew lak a flash,

Tore apen 'e shutters an' threw up 'e sash.

'E meen on 'e breist o' 'e spleet-new snaw Gae 'e licht o' forenin tae objecks belaw, Fan, fit tae me winrin een shud appear, Bit a wee bittie sledge, an' aucht tiny reindeer,

Wi' a little aul' driver, sae crouse an' sae faist, Aw kent in a moment it maist be Auld Nick, Mair rapid 'an eagles hiz coursers 'ey cam, An' he whistled, an' skraich'd, an' ca'd 'em by name;

"Noo, DASHER! noo, DANCER! noo, PRANCER an' VIXEN!

On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DUNDER an' BLIXEM!

Tae 'e tap o' 'e porch! tae 'e tap o' 'e wa'!

Noo dash awa'! dash awa'! dash awa' a'!

As win shaws 'at afore 'e wull heerican flee, Fan 'ey kep wi' a bunkert, munt tae 'e skye, Sae hup tae 'e hoose-tap 'e coursers 'ey fleed, Wi' 'e sledge fu' o' toys, an' St. Nicholas tae.

An syne, in a twinklin', Aw hard on 'e reef, 'E prancin' an' pawin' o' ilka wee heef.

As Aw drew in me han, an' wis turnin' aroon, Doon 'e lum St. Nicholas cam wi' a bun.

He wiz triggit oot a' in fur, frae hiz heid tae hiz fit, An' hiz claes war a' barkit wi' aiss an' wi' sitt; A fushach o' toys he hid flang on hiz back, An' he leuk'd lak a pedlar jist apenin' hiz pack.

Hiz een - foo 'ey twinkl'd! hiz dimples foo blythe!

Hiz chiks war lak roses, hiz niz lak a cherry!

Hiz wee little mou wiz drawn up lak a bow, An' 'e fuskers o' hiz chin wis as fite as 'e snaw;

'E stowff o' a pipe he held ticht in hiz teeth, An' 'e reek it encircl't hiz heid lak a wreath; He hid a braid face an' a wee roon' belly, 'At shook, fan he lauched lak a caup fu' o' jelly.

He wis brosy an' stoot, a richt jelly aul' elf, An' Aw lauched fan Aw saw 'im, mauger mysel'; A blink o' hiz een an' a crook o' hiz heid, Seen gae me tae ken Aw hid naething tae dreid;

He spake nae a wird, bit gaed straucht tae hiz wark, An' fi'ed a' 'e hose syne turn'd wi' a jerk, An' layin' hiz finger aside o' hiz niz, An' giein' a nod, up 'e lum he rose;

He sprang tae hiz sledge, tae hiz team gae a whistle, An' awa' 'ey a' flew, lak 'e doon o' a thistle.

Bit Aw hard him exclaim, ere he drove oot o' sicht, "HAPPY CHRISTMAS TAE A', AN' TAE A' A GUID-NICHT!"

Lance Corporal James M. Schmidt wrote the poem below while serving as Battalion Counter Sniper at the Marine Barracks 8th & I, Washington , DC , under Commandant P.X. Kelly and Battalion Commander D.J. Myers in 1991. He wrote this poem to hang on the door of the Gym in the BEQ. When Colonel Myers came upon it, he read it and immediately had copies sent to each department at the Barracks and promptly dismissed the entire Battalion early for Christmas leave. The poem was placed that day in the Marine Corps Gazette, distributed worldwide and later submitted to Leatherneck Magazine.

'Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one-bedroom house made of plaster and stone.

I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live.

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.

For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen.
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.

I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.

And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.
I soon understood, this was more than a man.

For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.

Soon around the Nation, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.

They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.

I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.

Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more.
My life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep.
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.

I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill.

So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.

Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.

I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.

But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all secure."

One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.