The Icelandic Yulelads

In a cave high up in the Blue Mountains,
A place fit only for ogres and trolls,
Mother Grýla stirred the brew,
Throwing sheep dung into the fire,
Father Leppalúði sat on his bed,
Which he never left, unless he had to.

From a dark corner there came a rumbling,
Loud yawning, quarreling and kicking about.
After their long sleep, limbs stiff and shaky,
Their heads unclear, the Lads were awakening.
Whith the approach of yet another Yuletide,
They were getting on their feet again.

The Lads grew merrier by the hour,
And the Yuletide Cat came slinking in,
Sensing something tastier in the offing,
Then the mice of past months.
The Lads wolfed down Grýla's brew,
And prepared for their annual journey.

The Yuletide Lads meant mischief,and each day
Another one made his way down from the Moutains.
Under cover of darkness they approached the homesteads,
The hissing Yutelide Cat close upon their heels.
At the farms, from then on, things began to disappear.
Deplorable, really, the way these Lads behaved...