The ninth was Sausage Swiper,
a shifty pilferer.
He climbed up to the rafters
and raided food from there.
Sitting on a crossbeam
in soot and in smoke,
he fed himself on sausage
fit for gentlefolk.
The tenth was Window Peeper,
a weird little twit,
who stepped up to the window
and stole a peek through it.
And whatever was inside
to which his eye was drawn,
he most likely attempted
to take later on.
Eleventh was Door Sniffer, 
a doltish lad and gross.
He never got a cold, yet had
a huge, sensitive nose.
He caught the scent of lace bread
while leagues away still
and ran toward it weightless
as wind over dale and hill.
Meat Hook, the twelfth one, 
his talent would display
as soon as he arrived
on Saint Thorlak´s Day.
He snagged himself a morsel
of meet of any sort,
although his hook at times was
a tiny bit short.
The thirteenth was Candle Beggar
- ´twas cold, I believe,
if he was not the last
of the lot on Christmas Eve.
He trailed after the little ones
who, like happy sprites,
ran about the farm with
their fine tallow lights.
On Christmas night itself
- so a wise man writes
- the lads were all restraint
and just stared at the lights.
Then one by one they trotted off
into the frost and snow.
On Twelfth Night the last
of the lads used to go.
Their footprints in the highlands
are effaced now for long,
the memories have all turned
to image and song
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