Here are some more possible carol texts. I believe these are all in the public domain. Some are too long, but have stanzas ripe for picking!
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, by William Brighty Rands:
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore —
No doubt you have heard the name before —
Was a boy who never would shut a door!
The wind might whistle, the wind might roar,
And teeth be aching and throats be sore,
But still he never would shut the door.
His father would beg, his mother implore,
“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,
We really do wish you would shut the door!”
Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore;
But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore
Was deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.
When he walked forth the folks would roar,
“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,
Why don’t you think to shut the door?”
They rigged up a Shutter with sail and oar,
And threatened to pack off Gustavus Gore
On a voyage of penance to Singapore.
But he begged for mercy and said, “No more!
Pray do not send me to Singapore
On a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!”
“You will?” said his parents; “then keep on shore!
But mind you do! For the plague is sore
Of a fellow that never will shut the door,
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!”
Trees, by Sara Coleridge:
The Oak is called the king of trees,
The Aspen quivers in the breeze,
The Poplar grows up straight and tall,
The Peach tree spreads along the wall,
The Sycamore gives pleasant shade,
The Willow droops in watery glade,
The Fir tree useful in timber gives,
The Beech amid the forest lives.
Cradle Song at Bethlehem, by E. J. Falconer:
Oh! hush Thee, oh! hush Thee, my Baby so small,
The ass hath her crib and the ox hath his stall,
They shelter Thee, Baby, from Heaven a-bove,
Oh! hush Thee, oh! hush Thee, my Baby, my love.
Oh! hush Thee, oh! hush Thee, my Baby so small,
Dim is the light from the lamp on the wall,
Bright in the night sky shineth a star,
Lead-ing the Kings who come from afar.
Oh! hush Thee, oh! hush Thee, my Baby so small,
Jos-eph is spread-ing the straw in the stall,
Soon wilt Thou sleep in the nook of my arm
Safe from all trouble and danger and harm.
Jack Frost in the Garden, by John P. Smeeton:
Jack Frost was in the garden;
I saw him there at dawn;
He was dancing round the bushes
And prancing on the lawn.
He had a cloak of silver,
A hat all shimm’ring white,
A wand of glittering star-dust,
And shoes of sunbeam light.
Jack Frost was in the garden,
When I went out to play
He nipped my toes and fingers
And quickly ran away.
I chased him round the wood-shed,
But, oh! I’m sad to say
That though I chased him everywhere
He simply wouldn’t stay.
Jack Frost was in the garden:
But now I’d like to know
Where I can find him hiding;
I’ve hunted high and low-
I’ve lost his cloak of silver,
His hat all shimm’ring white,
His wand of glittering star-dust,
His shoes of sunbeam light.
Norse Lullaby, by Eugene Field:
The sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;”
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
“Sleep, little one, sleep.”
On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep.”
The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The tree may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best,–
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, a-next my heart
Sleep, little one, sleep.
Snow-Flakes, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Night, by William Blake:
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta’en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying: “Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.
“And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, washed in life’s river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold,
As I guard o’er the fold.”
