Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the air
not a creature was stirring, not even Seafair
The Boats were hung on the cranes with care,
in hopes that the Hydro Races soon would be there.
The Teams were nestled all snug in their beds
while visions of trophies danced in their heads.
And Drivers in race suits, and crews in their caps,
had just settled down for a long winter’s naps.
When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from our beds to see what was the matter.
Away to the window we flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the luster of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should show,
but a miniature race course and eight tiny hydro!
With a little old driver, so lively and fair,
I knew in a moment it must be Seafair.
More rapid than Blue Angels, their coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now Albert Lee! Now Qatar!
Now Oberto and Our Gang!
On, Spirit of Detroit! On, Graham!
On, Peters & May and the Formula Gang!
From the peak of the wake
To the Tower so tall
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!