“A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale and now a toast,
Tobacco, and a good coal-fire,
Are things this season doth require.”

Poor Robin.

A CHRISTMAS “NOW.”

So, now is come our joyful’st feast,
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy-leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbors’ chimneys smoke,
And Christmas logs are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie;
And if for cold it hap to die,
We’ll bury ’t in a Christmas-pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabor;
Young men and maids, and girls and boys,
Give life to one another’s joys;
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folks themselves advance
For crowdy-mutton’s come out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Squash has fetched his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Ned hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel;
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat or rags to wear
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices
With capóns make their arrants;
And if they hap to fail of these,
They plague them with their warrants:
But now they feed them with good cheer,
And what they want they take in beer;
For Christmas comes but once a year,
And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor that else were undone;
Some landlords spend their money worse
On lust and pride at London.
There the roysters they do play,
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day;
And therefore let’s be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner’s heart is eased;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though other purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,
And therefore let’s be merry.

Hark! how the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling:
Anon you’ll see them in the hall
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound!
Anon they’ll think the house goes round:
For they the cellar’s depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls,
About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheep-côtés have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play at noddy.
Some youths will now a mumming go,
Some others play at Rowland-ho,
And twenty other gameboys mo,
Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller.
And, whilst thus inspired, we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring,
Woods, and hills, and everything
Bear witness we are merry.

George Wither.

CHRISTMAS EVE CUSTOMS.

I.

Come, guard this night the Christmas-pie,
That the thief, though ne’er so sly,
With his flesh-hooks, don’t come nigh
To catch it,

From him, who alone sits there,
Having his eyes still in his ear,
And a deal of nightly fear
To watch it!

II.

Wash your hands, or else the fire
Will not teend to your desire;
Unwashed hands, ye maidens, know,
Dead the fire, though ye blow.

Robert Herrick.

MERRY SOULS.

O you merry, merry Souls,
Christmas is a-coming,
We shall have flowing bowls,
Dancing, piping, drumming.

Delicate minced pies
To feast every virgin,
Capon and goose likewise,
Brawn and a dish of sturgeon.

Then, for your Christmas box,
Sweet plum-cakes and money,
Delicate Holland smocks,
Kisses sweet as honey.

Hey for the Christmas ball,
Where we shall be jolly
Jigging short and tall,
Kate, Dick, Ralph, and Molly.

Then to the hop we’ll go
Where we’ll jig and caper;
Maidens all-a-row;
Will shall pay the scraper.

Hodge shall dance with Prue,
Keeping time with kisses;
We’ll have a jovial crew
Of sweet smirking misses.

Round About Our Coal Fire.

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME.

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord underogating share
The vulgar game of post-and-pair.
All hailed with uncontrolled delight
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage as the crown
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire with well-dried logs supplied
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,
Crested with bay and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood and Christmas-pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce
At such high tide her savory goose.
Then came the merry masquers in
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery.
While shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made:
But, oh! what masquers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

Sir Walter Scott.

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS.

Come, bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas-log to the firing,
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your heart’s desiring.

With the last year’s brand
Light the new block, and,
For good success in his spending,
On your psalteries play,
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-teending.

Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a-shredding;
For the rare mince-pie
And the plums stand by,
To fill the paste that’s a-kneading.

Robert Herrick.

BRINGING IN THE BOAR’S HEAD.

Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes domino.
The boar’s head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary;
I pray you all sing merrily
Qui estis in convivio.

The boar’s head, I understand,
Is the chief service in this land;
Look, wherever it be fand,

Servite cum cantico.

Be glad, lords, both more and less,
For this hath ordained our steward
To cheer you all this Christmas,
The boar’s head with mustard.

Ritson’s Ancient Songs.

THE BOAR’S HEAD CAROL.

SUNG AT QUEEN’S COLLEGE, OXFORD.

The boar’s head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary;
And I pray you, my masters, be merry,
Quot estis in convivio.
Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes domino.

The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedeck’d with a gay garland
Let us servire cantico.
Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes domino.

Our steward hath provided this
In honor of the King of bliss;
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi Atrio.
Caput apri defero
Reddens laudes domino.

TO BE EATEN WITH MUSTARD.

SUNG AT ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE, OXFORD, CHRISTMAS, 1607.

The boar is dead,
So, here is his head;
What man could have done more
Than his head off to strike,
Meleager-like,
And bring it as I do before.

He living spoiled
Where good men toiled,
Which made kind Ceres sorry;
But now dead and drawn
Is very good brawn,
And we have brought it for ye.

Then set down the swineyard,
The foe to the vineyard,
Let Bacchus crown his fall;
Let this boar’s head and mustard
Stand for pig, goose, and custard,
And so ye are welcome all.

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING.

Maids, get up and bake your pies,
Bake your pies, bake your pies;
Maids, get up and bake your pies,
’Tis Christmas day in the morning.

See the ships all sailing by,
Sailing by, sailing by;
See the ships all sailing by
On Christmas day in the morning.

Dame, what made your ducks to die,
Ducks to die, ducks to die;
Dame, what made your ducks to die
On Christmas day in the morning?

You let your lazy maidens lie,
Maidens lie, maidens lie;
You let your lazy maidens lie
On Christmas day in the morning.

Bishoprick Garland, A.D. 1834.

PRAISE OF CHRISTMAS.

FIRST PART.

All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!
Good fortune attend each merry-man’s friend,
That doth but the best that he may;
Forgetting old wrongs, with carols and songs,
To drive the cold winter away.

Let Misery pack, with a whip at his back,
To the deep Tantalian flood;
In Lethe profound let envy be drown’d,
That pines at another man’s good;
Let Sorrow’s expense be banded from hence,
All payments have greater delay,
We’ll spend the long nights in cheerful delights
To drive the cold winter away.

’Tis ill for a mind to anger inclined
To think of small injuries now;
If wrath be to seek, do not lend her thy cheek,
Nor let her inhabit thy brow,
Cross out of thy books malevolent looks,
Both beauty and youth’s decay,
And wholly consort with mirth and with sport
To drive the cold winter away.

The court in all state now opens her gate
And gives a free welcome to most;
The city likewise, tho’ somewhat precise,
Doth willingly part with her roast:
But yet by report from city and court
The country will e’er gain the day;
More liquor is spent and with better content
To drive the cold winter away.

Our good gentry there for costs do not spare,
The yeomanry fast not till Lent;
The farmers and such think nothing too much,
If they keep but to pay for their rent.
The poorest of all now do merrily call,
When at a fit place they can stay,
For a song or a tale or a cup of good ale
To drive the cold winter away.

Thus none will allow of solitude now
But merrily greets the time,
To make it appear of all the whole year
That this is accounted the prime:
December is seen apparell’d in green,
And January fresh as May
Comes dancing along with a cup and a song
To drive the cold winter away.

SECOND PART.

This time of the year is spent in good cheer,
And neighbors together do meet
To sit by the fire, with friendly desire,
Each other in love to greet;
Old grudges forgot are put in the pot,
All sorrows aside they lay;
The old and the young doth carol this song
To drive the cold winter away.

Sisley and Nanny, more jocund than any,
As blithe as the month of June,
Do carol and sing like birds of the spring,
No nightingale sweeter in tune;
To bring in content, when summer is spent,
In pleasant delight and play,
With mirth and good cheer to end the whole year,
And drive the cold winter away.

The shepherd, the swain, do highly disdain
To waste out their time in care;
And Clim of the Clough hath plenty enough
If he but a penny can spare
To spend at the night, in joy and delight,
Now after his labor all day;
For better than lands is the help of his hands
To drive the cold winter away.

To mask and to mum kind neighbors will come
With wassails of nut-brown ale,
To drink and carouse to all in the house
As merry as bucks in the dale;
Where cake, bread, and cheese are brought for your fees
To make you the longer stay;
At the fire to warm ’twill do you no harm,
To drive the cold winter away.

When Christmas’s tide comes in like a bride
With holly and ivy clad,
Twelve days in the year much mirth and good cheer
In every household is had;
The country guise is then to devise
Some gambols of Christmas play,
Whereat the young men do best that they can
To drive the cold winter away.

When white-bearded frost hath threatened his worst,
And fallen from branch and brier,
Then time away calls from husbandry halls
And from the good countryman’s fire,
Together to go to plough and to sow,
To get us both food and array,
And thus with content the time we have spent
To drive the cold winter away.

WINTER’S DELIGHTS.

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.

The time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well:
Some, measures comely tread,
Some, knotted riddles tell,
Some, poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

Thomas Campion.

A CHRISTMAS CATCH.

To shorten winter’s sadness,
See where the nymphs with gladness
Disguised all are coming,
Right wantonly a-mumming.

Fa la.

Whilst youthful sports are lasting,
To feasting turn our fasting;
With revels and with wassails
Make grief and care our vassals.

Fa la.

For youth it well beseemeth
That pleasure he esteemeth;
And sullen age is hated
That mirth would have abated.

Fa la.

Thomas Weelkes, A.D. 1597.

THE EPIC.

At Francis Allen’s on the Christmas eve,
The game of forfeits done the girls all kissed
Beneath the sacred bush and past away,
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebbed: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honor had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bumped the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and, half-awake, I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners,
Now hawking at geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith
Right through the world; “at home was little left,
And none abroad; there was no anchor, none,
To hold by.” Francis, laughing, clapt his hand
On Everard’s shoulder with, “I hold by him.”
“And I,” quoth Everard, “by the wassail-bowl.”
“Why, yes,” I said, “we knew your gift that way
At college; but another which you had,
I mean of verse (for so we held it then),
What came of that?” “You know,” said Frank, “he burnt
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books,”
And then to me demanding why? “Oh, sir,
He thought that nothing new was said, or else
Something so said ’twas nothing that a truth
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:
God knows, he has a mint of reasons: ask.
It pleased me well enough.” “Nay, nay,” said Hall,
“Why take the style of those heroic times?
For nature brings not back the mastodon,
Nor we those times; and why should any man
Remodel models? These twelve books of mine
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth,
Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.” “But I,”
Said Francis, “picked the eleventh from this hearth,
And have it: keep a thing, its use will come.
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.”
He laughed, and I, though sleepy, like a horse
That hears the corn-bin open, pricked my ears;
For I remembered Everard’s college fame
When we were freshmen: then, at my request,
He brought it; and the poet, little urged,
But, with some prelude of disparagement,
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes,
Deep-chested music, and to this result:

MORTE D’ARTHUR.

So all day long the noise of battle rolled
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep the men I loved. I think that we
Shall nevermore, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more, but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou, therefore, take my brand, Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword and how I rowed across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, whensoever I am sung or told
In after time, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.”
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man,
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”
So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seemed
Better to leave Excalibur concealed
There in the many-knotted water-flags
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“Hast thou performed my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag.”
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
“Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseemed
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had followed, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,
“And if, indeed, I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost forever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable against himself?”

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
“What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”
To whom replied King Arthur much in wrath:
“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widowed of the power of his eye
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art;
For thou, the latest left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence;
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the sword
And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea,
So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt and brandished him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long
Had winked, and threatened darkness, flared and fell:
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,
And waked with silence, grunted “Good!” but we
Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read
Perhaps some modern touches here and there
Redeemed it from the charge of nothingness
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;
I know not; but we sitting as I said,
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,
“There now that’s nothing!” drew a little back,
And drove his heel into the smouldered log,
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue:
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seemed
To sail with Arthur under looming shores,
Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
Then came a bark that, blowing forward, bore
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
“Arthur is come again: he cannot die.”
Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated “Come again, and thrice as fair;”
And, further inland, voices echoed, “Come
With all good things, and war shall be no more.”
At this a hundred bells began to peal,
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.

Lord Tennyson.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

For sports, for pageantries, and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holidays
On which the young men and maids meet
To exercise their dancing feet,
Tripping the comely country-round,
With daffodils and daisies crowned.
Thy wakes, thy quintals, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced,
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale,
Thy shearing-feast, which never fail,
Thy harvest home, thy wassail-bowl,
That’s tossed up after fox-i’-th’-hole,
Thy mummeries, thy Twelfthtide kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings,
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.

O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood,
Who all the day themselves do please
And younglings with such sports as these,
And, lying down, have naught t’ affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

Robert Herrick.

CHRISTMAS OMNIPRESENT.

Christmas comes! He comes, he comes,
Ushered with a rain of plums;
Hollies in the windows greet him;
Schools come driving post to meet him;
Gifts precede him, bells proclaim him,
Every mouth delights to name him;
Wet, and cold, and wind, and dark
Make him but the warmer mark;
And yet he comes not one-embodied,
Universal’s the blithe godhead,
And in every festal house
Presence hath ubiquitous.
Curtains, those snug room-enfolders,
Hang upon his million shoulders,
And he has a million eyes
Of fire, and eats a million pies,
And is very merry and wise;
Very wise and very merry,
And loves a kiss beneath the berry.
Then full many a shape hath he,
All in said ubiquity:
Now is he a green array,
And now an “eve,” and now a “day;”
Now he’s town gone out of town,
And now a feast in civic gown,
And now the pantomime and clown
With a crack upon the crown,
And all sorts of tumbles down;
And then he’s music in the night,
And the money gotten by’t:
He’s a man that can’t write verses,
Bringing some to ope your purses:
He’s a turkey, he’s a goose,
He’s oranges unfit for use;
He’s a kiss that loves to grow
Underneath the mistletoe;
And he’s forfeits, cards, and wassails,
And a king and queen with vassals,
All the “quizzes” of the time
Drawn and quarter’d with a rhyme;
And then, for their revival’s sake,
Lo! he’s an enormous cake,
With a sugar on the top,
Seen before in many a shop,
Where the boys could gaze forever,
They think the cake so very clever.
Then, some morning, in the lurch
Leaving romps, he goes to church,
Looking very grave and thankful,
After which he’s just as prankful.
Now a saint, and now a sinner,
But, above all, he’s a dinner;
He’s a dinner, where you see
Everybody’s family;
Beef, and pudding, and mince-pies,
And little boys with laughing eyes,
Whom their seniors ask arch questions,
Feigning fears of indigestions
As if they, forsooth, the old ones,
Hadn’t, privately, tenfold ones:
He’s a dinner and a fire,
Heap’d beyond your heart’s desire,
Heap’d with log, and bak’d with coals,
Till it roasts your very souls,
And your cheek the fire outstares,
And you all push back your chairs,
And the mirth becomes too great,
And you all sit up too late,
Nodding all with too much head,
And so go off to too much bed.

O plethora of beef and bliss!
Monkish feaster, sly of kiss!
Southern soul in body Dutch!
Glorious time of great Too-Much!
Too much heat and too much noise,
Too much babblement of boys;
Too much eating, too much drinking,
Too much ev’rything but thinking;
Solely bent to laugh and stuff,
And trample upon base Enough.
Oh, right is thy instructive praise
Of the wealth of Nature’s ways!
Right thy most unthrifty glee,
And pious thy mince-piety!
For, behold! great Nature’s self
Builds her no abstemious shelf,
But provides (her love is such
For all) her own great, good Too-Much,
Too much grass, and too much tree,
Too much air, and land, and sea,
Too much seed of fruit and flower,
And fish, an unimagin’d dower!
(In whose single roe shall be
Life enough to stock the sea,
Endless ichthyophagy!)
Ev’ry instant through the day
Worlds of life are thrown away;
Worlds of life, and worlds of pleasure,
Not for lavishment of treasure,
But because she’s so immensely
Rich, and loves us so intensely.
She would have us, once for all,
Wake at her benignant call,
And all grow wise, and all lay down
Strife, and jealousy, and frown,
And, like the sons of one great mother,
Share, and be blest, with one another.

Leigh Hunt.

AN OLD ENGLISH CHRISTMAS-TIDE.

Thrice holy ring, afar and wide,
The merry bells this Christmas-tide;
Afar and wide, through hushed snow,
From ivied minster-portico,
Sweet anthems swell to tell the tale
Of that young babe the shepherds hail
Sitting amid their nibbling flocks
What time the Hallelujah shocks
The drowsy earth, and Cherubim
Break through the heaven with harp and hymn.

Belated birds sing tingling notes
To warm apace their chilly throats,
Or they, mayhap, have caught the story
And pipe their part from branches hoary;
While up aloft, his tempered beams
The sun has poured in gentle streams,
Sending o’er snowy hill and dell
A pleasance to greet the Christmas bell!
Now every yeoman starts abroad
For holly green and the ivy-tod;
Good folk to kirk are soon atrip
Mellow with cheer and good-fellowship,
And cosey chimneys, here and there
Puff forth the sweets o’ Christmas fare.

Ho! rosy wenches and merry men
From over the hill and field and fen,
Great store is here, the drifts between
Of myrtle red-berried, and mistletoe green!
Ho, Phyllis and Kate and bonny Nell
Come hither, and buffet the goodmen well,
An they gather not for hall and hearth,
Fair bays to grace the evening mirth.
Aye, laugh ye well! and echoed wide
Your voices sing through the Christmas-tide,
And wintry winds emblend their tones
At the minster-eaves with the organ groans:
The carols meet with laughter sweet
In a gay embrace mid the drifting sleet.

Anon the weary sun’s at rest,
And clouds that hovered all day by,
Like silver arras down the sky
Enfold him while the winds are whist
But not the Christmas jollity,
For, little space, and wassail high
Flows at the board; and hautboys sound
The tripping dance and merry round.
Here youths and maidens stand in row
Kissing beneath the mistletoe;
And many a tale of midnight rout
O’ Christmas-tide the woods about,
Of faery meetings beneath the moon
In wintry blast or summer swoon,
Goes round the hearth, while all aglow
The yule-log crackles the crane below.

Drink hael! good folk, by the chimney side,
O sweet’s the holy Christmas-tide!
Drink hael! Drink hael! and pledge again:
“Here’s peace on earth, good-will to men!”

H. S. M.

SIGNS OF CHRISTMAS.

When on the barn’s thatch’d roof is seen
The moss in tufts of liveliest green;
When Roger to the wood pile goes,
And, as he turns, his fingers blows;
When all around is cold and drear,
Be sure that Christmas-tide is near.

When up the garden walk in vain
We seek for Flora’s lovely train;
When the sweet hawthorn bower is bare,
And bleak and cheerless is the air;
When all seems desolate around,
Christmas advances o’er the ground.

When Tom at eve comes home from plough,
And brings the mistletoe’s green bough,
With milk-white berries spotted o’er,
And shakes it the sly maids before,
Then hangs the trophy up on high,
Be sure that Christmas-tide is nigh.

When Hal, the woodman, in his clogs,
Bears home the huge unwieldly logs,
That, hissing on the smould’ring fire,
Flame out at last a quiv’ring spire;
When in his hat the holly stands,
Old Christmas musters up his bands.

When cluster’d round the fire at night,
Old William talks of ghost and sprite,
And, as a distant out-house gate
Slams by the wind, they fearful wait,
While some each shadowy nook explore,
Then Christmas pauses at the door.

When Dick comes shiv’ring from the yard,
And says the pond is frozen hard,
While from his hat, all white with snow,
The moisture, trickling, drops below,
While carols sound, the night to cheer,
Then Christmas and his train are here.

Edwin Lees.

THE MISTLETOE.

When winter nights grow long,
And winds without blow cold,
We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire,
And listen to stories old!
And we try to look grave, (as maids should be,)
When the men bring in boughs of the Laurel-tree.
O the Laurel, the evergreen tree!
The poets have laurels, and why not we?

How pleasant, when night falls down
And hides the wintry sun,
To see them come in to the blazing fire,
And know that their work is done;
Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme,
Green branches of Holly for Christmas time!
O the Holly, the bright green Holly,
It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly!

Sometimes (in our grave house,
Observe, this happeneth not;)
But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs
And the holly are all forgot!
And then! what then? why, the men laugh low
And hang up a branch of the Mistletoe!
O brave is the Laurel! and brave is the Holly!
But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy!
Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know,
What is done under the Mistletoe.

Bryan Waller Proctor.

CHRISTMAS OF OLD.

IN GERMANY.

Three weeks before the day whereon was born the Lord of grace,
And on the Thursday, boys and girls do run in every place,
And bounce and beat at every door, with blows and lusty snaps,
And cry the advent of the Lord, not born as yet, perhaps:
And wishing to the neighbors all, that in the houses dwell,
A happy year, and everything to spring and prosper well:
Here have they pears, and plums, and pence; each man gives willingly,
For these three nights are always thought unfortunate to be,
Wherein they are afraid of sprites and cankered witches’ spite,
And dreadful devils, black and grim, that then have chiefest might.

In these same days, young, wanton girls that meet for marriage be,
Do search to know the names of them that shall their husbands be.
Four onions, five, or eight they take, and make in every one
Such names as they do fancy most and best do think upon.
Thus near the chimney then they set, and that same onion than
The first doth sprout doth surely bear the name of their good man.
Their husband’s nature eke they seek to know and all his guise:
When as the sun hath hid himself, and left the starry skies,
Unto some woodstack do they go, and while they there do stand,
Each one draws out a fagot stick, the next that comes to hand,
Which if it straight and even be, and have no knots at all,
A gentle husband then they think shall surely to them fall;
But, if it foul and crooked be, and knotty here and there,
A crabbed, churlish husband then they earnestly do fear.

Then comes the day wherein the Lord did bring his birth to pass,
Whereas at midnight up they rise, and every man to Mass.
This time so holy counted is, that divers earnestly
Do think the waters all to wine are changed suddenly
In that same hour that Christ himself was born and came to light,
And unto water straight again transformed and altered quite.
There are beside that mindfully the money still do watch
That first to altar comes, which then they privily do snatch.
The priests, lest other should it have, take oft the same away,
Whereby they think throughout the year to have good luck in play,
And not to lose: then straight at game till daylight do they strive
To make some present proof how well their hallowed pence will thrive.

This done, a wooden child in clouts is on the altar set,
About the which both boys and girls do dance and trimly get,
And carols sing in praise of Christ, and for to help them here,
The organs answer every verse with sweet and solemn cheer.
The priests do roar aloud, and round about the parents stand,
To see the sport, and with their voice do help them and their hand.
Thus wont the Coribants perhaps upon the mountain Ide,
The crying noise of Jupiter, new born, with song to hide,
To dance about him round, and on their brazen pans to beat,
Lest that his father, finding him, should him destroy and eat.

Then followeth Saint Stephen’s Day, whereon doth every man
His horses jaunt and course abroad, as swiftly as he can.
Until they do extremely sweat, and then they let them blood,
For this being done upon this day, they say doth do them good,
And keeps them from all maladies and sickness through the year,
As if that Stephen any time took charge of horses here.
Next, John, the son of Zebedee, hath his appointed day,
Who once, by cruel tyrant’s will, constrained was, they say,
Strong poison up to drink, therefore the Papists do believe
That whoso puts their trust in him, no poison them can grieve.
The wine beside that hallowed is, in worship of his name,
The priests do give the people that bring money for the same.
And after with the selfsame wine are little manchets made,
Against the boisterous winter storms, and sundry such like trade.
The men upon this solemn day do take this holy wine,
To make them strong, so do the maids to make them fair and fine.

Then comes the day that calls to mind the cruel Herod’s strife,
Who seeking Christ to kill, the King of everlasting life,
Destroyed all the infants young, a beast unmerciless,
And put to death all such as were of two years age or less.
To them the sinful wretches cry and earnestly do pray
To get them pardon for their faults, and wipe their sins away.
The parents, when this day appears, do beat their children all
Though nothing they deserve, and servants all to beating fall,
And monks do whip each other well, or else their Prior great,
Or Abbot mad, doth take in hand their breeches all to beat
In worship of these Innocents, or rather, as we see,
In honor of the cursed king that did this cruelty.

The next to this is New-Year’s Day, whereon to every friend
They costly presents in do bring and New-Year’s gifts do send.
These gifts the husband gives his wife, and father eke the child,
And master on his men bestows the like, with favor mild,
And good beginning of the year they wish and wish again,
According to the ancient guise of heathen people vain.
These eight days no man doth require his debts of any man,
Their tables do they furnish out with all the meat they can:
With marchpanes, tarts, and custards great they drink with staring eyes,
They rout and revel, feed and feast as merry all as pies,
As if they should at the entrance of this New Year have to die,
Yet would they have their bellies full and ancient friends ally.

The Wise Men’s day here followeth, who out from Persia far,
Brought gifts and presents unto Christ, conducted by a star.
The Papists do believe that these were kings, and so them call,
And do affirm that of the same there were but three in all.
Here sundry friends together come, and meet in company,
And make a king amongst themselves by voice or destiny;
Who, after princely guise, appoints his officers alway,
Then unto feasting do they go, and long time after play:
Upon their boards, in order thick, their dainty dishes stand,
Till that their purses empty be and creditors at hand.
Their children herein follow them, and choosing princes here,
With pomp and great solemnity, they meet and make good cheer
With money either got by stealth, or of their parents eft,
That so they may be trained to know both riot here and theft.
Then, also, every householder, to his ability,
Doth make a mighty cake that may suffice his company:
Herein a penny doth he put, before it comes to fire,
This he divides according as his household doth require;
And every piece distributeth, as round about they stand,
Which in their names unto the poor is given out of hand.
But whoso chanceth on the piece wherein the money lies
Is counted king amongst them all, and is with shouts and cries
Exalted to the heavens up, who, taking chalk in hand,
Doth make a cross on every beam and rafters as they stand:
Great force and power have these against all injuries and harms,
Of cursed devils, sprites and bugs, of conjurings and charms,
So much this king can do, so much the crosses bring to pass,
Made by some servant, maid or child, or by some foolish ass!

Twice six nights then from Christmas they do count with diligence,
Wherein each master in his house doth burn up frankincense:
And on the table sets a loaf, when night approacheth near,
Before the coals and frankincense to be perfumed there:
First bowing down his head he stands, and nose, and ears, and eyes
He smokes, and with his mouth receives the fume that doth arise;
Whom followeth straight his wife, and doth the same full solemnly,
And of their children every one, and all their family:
Which doth preserve, they say, their teeth, and nose, and eyes, and ear
From every kind of malady and sickness all the year.
When every one received hath this odor great and small,
Then one takes up the pan with coals, and frankincense and all.
Another takes the loaf, whom all the rest do follow here,
And round about the house they go, with torch or taper clear,
That neither bread nor meat do want; nor witch with dreadful charm
Have power to hurt their children, or to do their cattle harm.
There are that three nights only do perform this foolish gear,
To this intent, and think themselves in safety all the year.
To Christ dare none commit himself. And in these days beside
They judge what weather all the year shall happen and betide:
Ascribing to each day a month, and at this present time
The youth in every place do flock, and all apparelled fine,
With pipers through the streets they run, and sing at every door
In commendation of the man, rewarded well therefore,
Which on themselves they do bestow, or on the church as though
The people were not plagued with rogues and begging friars enow.
There cities are where boys and girls together still do run
About the streets with like as soon as night begins to come,
And bring abroad their wassail-bowls, who well rewarded be
With cakes, and cheese, and great good cheer, and money plenteously.

From the German of Thos. Kirchmaier, A.D. 1553.

A PLEA FOR A PRESENT.

Father John Burges,
Necessity urges
My woeful cry
To Sir Robert Pie:
And that he will venture
To send my debenture.
Tell him his Ben
Knew the time when
He loved the Muses;
Though now he refuses
To take apprehension
Of a year’s pension,
And more is behind;
Put him in mind
Christmas is near,
And neither good cheer,
Mirth, fooling, nor wit,
Nor any least fit
Of gambol or sport
Will come to the court
If there be no money,
No plover or cony
Will come to the table,
Or wine to enable
The muse, or the poet,
The parish will know it
Nor any quick warming-pan help him to bed;
If the ’Chequer be empty, so will be his head.

Ben Jonson.

A NEW-YEAR’S GIFT SENT TO SIR SIMEON STEWARD.

No news of navies burnt at sea,
No noise of late-spawned Tityries,
No closet plot or open vent
That frights men with a Parliament:
No new device or late-found trick,
To read by the stars the kingdom’s sick;
No gin to catch the State, or wring
The free-born nostrils of the king,
We send to you, but here a jolly
Verse crowned with ivy and with holly;
That tells of winter’s tales and mirth
That milkmaids make about the hearth,
Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl,
That’s tost up after fox-i’-th’-hole;
Of Blindman-buff, and of the care
That young men have to shoe the mare;
Of Twelve-tide cake, of peas and beans,
Wherewith ye make those merry scenes,
When as ye choose your king and queen,
And cry out: Hey, for our town green!
Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use
Husbands and wives by streaks to choose;
Of crackling laurel, which foresounds
A plenteous harvest to your grounds;
Of these and such like things, for shift,
We send instead of New-Year’s gift:
Read then, and when your faces shine
With buxom meat and cap’ring wine,
Remember us in cups full-crowned,
And let our city-health go round,
Quite through the young maids and the men
To the ninth number, if not ten;
Until the fired chestnuts leap
For joy to see the fruits ye reap
From the plump chalice and the cup
That tempts till it be tossed up.
Then, as ye sit about your embers,
Call not to mind those fled Decembers;
But think on these that are to appear
As daughters to the instant year;
Sit crowned with rose-buds, and carouse,
Till Liber Pater twirls the house
About your ears; and lay upon
The year, your cares, that’s fled and gone.
And let the russet swains the plough
And harrow hang up resting now;
And to the bagpipe all address
Till sleep takes place of weariness;
And thus, throughout, with Christmas plays
Frolic the full twelve holydays.

Robert Herrick.

THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFT.

Let others look for pearl and gold
Tissues, or tabbies manifold;
One only lock of that sweet hay
Whereon the Blessed Baby lay,
Or one poor swaddling-clout, shall be
The richest New-Year’s gift to me.

Robert Herrick.

AN INVITATION TO THE REVEL.

Come follow, follow me,
Those that good fellows be,
Into the buttery
Our manhood for to try;
The master keeps a bounteous house,
And gives leave freely to carouse.

Then wherefore should we fear,
Seeing here is store of cheer?
It shows but cowardice
At this time to be nice.
Then boldly draw your blades and fight,
For we shall have a merry night.

When we have done this fray,
Then we will go to play
At cards or else at dice,
And be rich in a trice;
Then let the knaves go round apace,
I hope each time to have an ace.

Come, maids, let’s want no beer
After our Christmas cheer,
And I will duly crave
Good husbands you may have,
And that you may good houses keep,
When we may drink carouses deep.

And when that’s spent the day
We’ll Christmas gambols play,
At hot cockles beside
And then go to all-hide,
With many other pretty toys,
Men, women, youths, maids, girls, and boys.

Come, let’s dance round the hall,
And let’s for liquor call;
Put apples in the fire,
Sweet maids, I you desire;
And let a bowl be spiced well
Of happy stuff that doth excel.

Twelve days we now have spent
In mirth and merriment,
And daintily did fare,
For which we took no care:
But now I sadly call to mind
What days of sorrow are behind.

We must leave off to play,
To-morrow’s working-day;
According to each calling
Each man must now be falling,
And ply his business all the year
Next Christmas for to make good cheer.

Now of my master kind
Good welcome I did find,
And of my loving mistress
This merry time of Christmas;
For which to them great thanks I give,
God grant they long together live.

A CHRISTMAS DITTY.

Sweep the ingle, froth the beer,
Tiptoe on till chanticleer,
Loose the laugh, dry the tear,
Crack the drums
When Christmas comes!

AT THE END OF THE FEAST.

Mark well my heavy, doleful tale,
For Twelfth-day now is come,
And now I must no longer sing,
And say no words but mum;
For I perforce must take my leave
Of all my dainty cheer,
Plum-porridge, roast-beef, and minced-pies,
My strong ale and my beer.

Kind-hearted Christmas, now adieu,
For I with thee must part,
And for to take my leave of thee
Doth grieve me at the heart;
Thou wert an ancient housekeeper,
And mirth with meat didst keep,
But thou art going out of town,
Which makes me for to weep.

God knoweth whether I again
Thy merry face shall see,
Which to good fellows and the poor
That was so frank and free.
Thou lovedst pastime with thy heart,
And eke good company;
Pray hold me up for fear I swoon,
For I am like to die.

Come, butler, fill a brimmer up
To cheer my fainting heart,
That to old Christmas I may drink
Before he doth depart;
And let each one that’s in this room
With me likewise condole,
And for to cheer their spirits sad
Let each one drink a bowl.

And when the same it hath gone round
Then fall unto your cheer,
For you do know that Christmas time
It comes but once a year.
But this good draught which I have drunk
Hath comforted my heart,
For I was very fearful that
My stomach would depart.

Thanks to my master and my dame
That doth such cheer afford;
God bless them, that each Christmas they
May furnish thus their board.
My stomach having come to me,
I mean to have a bout,
Intending to eat most heartily;
Good friends, I do not flout.

New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1642.

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, KING AND QUEEN.

Now, now the mirth comes
With the cake full of plums,
Where bean’s the king of the sport here;
Beside, we must know
The pea also
Must revel as queen in the court here.

Begin then to choose,
This night, as ye use,
Who shall for the present delight here;
Be a king by the lot,
And who shall not
Be Twelve-day queen for the night here!

Which known, let us make
Joy-sops with the cake;
And let not a man then be seen here,
Who unurged will not drink,
To the base from the brink,
A health to the king and the queen here!

Next crown the bowl full
With gentle lamb’s wool,
And sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale, too;
And this ye must do
To make the wassail a swinger.

Give then to the king
And queen, wassailing,
And though with ale ye be wet here,
Yet part ye from hence
As free from offence
As when ye innocent met here

Robert Herrick.

CEREMONIES FOR CANDLEMAS EVE.

Down with the rosemary and bays,
Down with the mistletoe;
Instead of holly, now upraise
The greener box for show.

The holly hitherto did sway;
Let box now domineer
Until the dancing Easter day
Or Easter’s eve appear.

Then youthful box, which now hath grace
Your houses to renew,
Grown old, surrender must his place
Unto the crisped yew.

When yew is out, then birch comes in,
And many flowers beside,
Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,
To honor Whitsuntide.

Green rushes then, and sweetest bents,
With cooler oaken boughs,
Come in for comely ornaments,
To readorn the house.
Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold;
New things succeed as former things grow old.

Robert Herrick.

ANOTHER CEREMONY.

Down with the rosemary, and so
Down with the bays and mistletoe;
Down with the holly, ivy, all
Wherewith ye dressed the Christmas hall,
That so the superstitious find
No one last branch there left behind;
For, look! how many leaves there be
Neglected there, maids, trust to me
So many goblins you shall see.

Robert Herrick.

THE CEREMONIES FOR CANDLEMAS DAY.

Kindle the Christmas brand, and then
Till sunset let it burn,
Which quenched, then lay it up again
Till Christmas next return.

Part must be kept, wherewith to teend
The Christmas log next year,
And where ’tis safely kept, the fiend
Can do no mischief there.

Robert Herrick.

ANOTHER CEREMONY.

End now the white-loaf and the pie,
And let all sports with Christmas die.

Robert Herrick.

SAINT DISTAFF’S DAY, THE MORROW AFTER TWELFTH DAY.

Partly work and partly play
Ye must on St. Distaff’s day;
From the plough soon free your team,
Then come home and fodder them;
If the maids a-spinning go,
Burn the flax and fire the tow;
Scorch their plackets, but beware
That ye singe no maiden-hair;
Bring in pails of water then,
Let the maids bewash the men;
Give St. Distaff all the right,
Then bid Christmas sport good-night,
And next morrow every one
To his own vocation.

Robert Herrick.