Chapter 3

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.[E]

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._

FOOTNOTE:

[E] Burning.

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.