Chapter II: Part 2

The Shepherds sought that birth divine,
The Wise Men traced their guided way;
There, by strange light and mystic sign,
The God they came to worship lay.
A human Babe in beauty smiled,
Where lowing oxen round Him trod:
A maiden clasped her awful Child,
Pure offspring of the breath of God.

Those voices from on high are mute,
The star the Wise Men saw is dim;
But hope still guides the wanderer's foot,
And faith renews the angel hymn:
Glory to God in loftiest heaven!
Touch with glad hand the ancient chord;
Good tidings unto man forgiven,
Peace from the presence of the Lord.

_Robert Stephen Hawker._

LONG AGO.

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him,
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His mother,
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man,
I would do my part:
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

_Christina G. Rossetti._

STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshalled on the nightly plain
The glitt'ring host bestud the sky,
One star alone of all the train
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks
From ev'ry host, from ev'ry gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,--
It is the Star of Bethlehem!

Once on the raging seas I rode;
The storm was loud, the night was dark;
The ocean yawned, and rudely blew
The wind that tossed my found'ring bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze;
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem,
When suddenly a star arose,--
It was the Star of Bethlehem!

It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing first in night's diadem,
Forever and forever more,--
The Star, the Star of Bethlehem!

_Henry Kirke White._

NO ROOM.

Foot-sore and weary, Mary tried
Some rest to seek, but was denied.
"There is no room," the blind ones cried.

Meekly the Virgin turned away,
No voice entreating her to stay;
There was no room for God that day.

No room for her, round whose tired feet
Angels are bowed in transport sweet
The mother of their God to greet.

No room for Him in whose small hand
The troubled sea and mighty land
Lie cradled like a grain of sand;

No room, O Babe Divine! for Thee
That Christmas night; and even we
Dare shut our hearts and turn the key.

In vain Thy pleading baby cry
Strikes our deaf souls; we pass Thee by,
Unsheltered 'neath the wintry sky.

No room for God! O Christ, that we
Should bar our doors, nor ever see
Our Saviour waiting patiently.

Fling wide the doors! Dear Christ, turn back!
The ashes on my hearth lie black--
Of light and warmth a total lack.

How can I bid Thee enter here
Amid the desolation drear
Of lukewarm love and craven fear?

What bleaker shelter can there be
Than my cold heart's tepidity--
Chilled, wind-tossed, as the winter sea?

Dear Lord, I shrink from Thy pure eye,
No home to offer Thee have I;
Yet in Thy mercy pass not by.

_Agnes Repplier._

ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

Assist me, Muse divine! to Sing the Morn
On which the Saviour of Mankind was born;
But oh! what Numbers to the Theme can rise?
Unless kind Angels aid me from the Skies!
Methinks I see the tunefull Host descend,
And with officious Joy the Scene attend!
Hark, by their Hymns directed on the Road,
The Gladsome Shepherds find the nascent God!
And view the Infant conscious of his Birth,
Smiling bespeak Salvation to the Earth!
For when th' important Æra first drew near
In which the great Messiah should appear;
And to accomplish his redeeming Love;
Beneath our Form should every Woe sustain,
And by triumphant Suffering fix his Reign,
Should for lost Man in Tortures yield his Breath
Dying to save us from eternal Death!
Oh mystick union!--salutary Grace!
Incarnate God our Nature should embrace!
That Deity should stoop to our Disguise!
That man recover'd should regain the Skies!
Dejected Adam! from thy grave ascend,
And view the Serpent's Deadly Malice end,
Adorning bless th' Almighty's boundless Grace
That gave his son a Ransome for thy Race!
Oh never let my Soul this Day forget,
But pay in gratefull praise the annual Debt.

_From a manuscript volume, written by George Washington._

THE HEAVENLY CHOIR.

What sudden blaze of song
Spreads o'er th' expanse of heaven?
In waves of light it thrills along,
Th' angelic signal given--
"Glory to God!" from yonder central fire
Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry quire;

Like circles widening round
Upon a clear blue river,
Orb after orb, the wondrous sound
Is echoed on forever;
"Glory to God on high, on earth be peace,
And love toward men of love--salvation and release."

Yet stay, before thou dare
To join that festal throng;
Listen and mark what gentle air
First stirred the tide of song;
'Tis not, "the Saviour born in David's home,
To whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:"

'Tis not "the Christ the Lord:"--
With fix'd adoring look
The choir of angels caught the word,
Nor yet their silence broke;
But when they heard the sign, where Christ should be,
In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapped in His swaddling-bands,
And in His manger laid,
The hope and glory of all lands
Is come to the world's aid:
No peaceful home upon His cradle smiled,
Guests rudely went and came where slept the royal Child.

But where Thou dwellest, Lord,
No other thought should be;
Once duly welcomed and adored,
How should I part with Thee?
Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace
The single heart to be Thy pure abiding-place.

Thee, on the bosom laid
Of a pure virgin mind,
In quiet ever, and in shade,
Shepherd and sage may find;
They who have bow'd untaught to nature's sway,
And they who follow truth along her star-paved way.

The pastoral spirits first
Approach Thee, Babe divine,
For they in lowly thoughts are nursed,
Meet for Thy lowly shrine:
Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell,
Angels from heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still, as the day comes round
For Thee to be revealed,
By wakeful shepherds Thou art found,
Abiding in the field.
All through the wintry heaven and chill night air,
In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.

O faint not ye for fear--
What though your wandering sheep,
Reckless of what they see and hear,
Lie lost in wilful sleep?
High heaven in mercy to your sad annoy
Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.

Think on th' eternal home
The Saviour left for you;
Think on the Lord most holy, come
To dwell with hearts untrue:
So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways,
And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.

_John Keble._

_The Wassail-Bowl._

"Wassail, wassail, all over the town;
Our toast it is white, our ale it is brown,
Our bowl it is made of the mapling tree;
With the wassailing bowl we will drink to thee."

_Old Carol._

WASSAIL.

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
An easy blessing to your bin
And basket, by our entering in.

May both with manchet[T] stand replete,
Your larders, too, so hung with meat,
That though a thousand thousand eat,

Yet ere twelve moons shall whirl about
Their silvery spheres, there's none may doubt
But more's sent in than was served out.

Next, may your dairies prosper so
As that your pans no ebb may know;
But if they do, the more to flow,

Like to a solemn, sober stream,
Banked all with lilies, and the cream
Of sweetest cowslips filling them.

Then may your plants be pressed with fruit,
Nor bee or hive you have be mute,
But sweetly sounding like a lute.

Last, may your harrows, shares, and ploughs,
Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows,
All prosper by your virgin vows.

Alas! we bless, but see none here,
That brings us either ale or beer;
In a dry house all things are near.

Let's leave a longer time to wait,
Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate;
And all live here with needy fate;

Where chimneys do forever weep
For want of warmth, and stomachs keep
With noise the servants' eyes from sleep.

It is in vain to sing or stay
Our free feet here, but we'll away;
Yet to the Lares this we'll say:

The time will come when you'll be sad,
And reckon this for fortune bad,
T' have lost the good ye might have had.

_Robert Herrick._

FOOTNOTE:

[T] White bread.

INVITATION À FAIRE NOËL.

(FROM THE FRENCH OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.)

Hail, good Masters, let us bide,
Hither come from travel wide,
This Christmas-tide.
Hearken, give us bed and cheer,
We are weary, life is dear
This day o' the year!
God send ye joy and peace on earth,
Who broach good cheer for Christé's birth.

Masters, an ye make no feast:
Spicéd ale and meat of beast,
Nor laugh the least:
If ye fill not pantries high
With bread, and fish, and mammoth pie,
And sweets, pardie!--
God ordains no peace on earth
To ye who fast at Christé's birth.

Masters, it is writ of old
Who fill the fire for Christmas cold
And wassail hold,
Shall have of food a double store
And ruddy-blazing ingle roar
Forevermore.
God sends the peace of heaven and earth
To men who carol Christé's birth.

O Masters! let nor hate nor spite
Mar the tongue of any wight
'Twixt night and night.
_Botun, batun_--belabor well
Churls who sleep through matin bell
And no soothe tell.
God will forfeit peace on earth
If men fall out at Christé's birth.

Christmas tipples every wine,
English, French, and Gascon fine
And Angevine;
Clinks with neighbor and with guest,
Empties casks with gibe and jest--
The year's for rest!
God sends to men the joy of earth
Who broach good cheer for Christé's birth.

But hearken, Masters, ere ye drink
While yet the bubbles boil and wink
At the brink;
Ere ye lift the pot aloft,
Merrily wave it, laughing oft,
With hood well doft.
And if I cry ye, sad, "Wesseyl!"
Woe's him who answers not "Drinchayl!"

_Translated by H. S. M._

A THANKSGIVING.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee;
The worts, the purslane, and the mess
Of water-cress,
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
And my content
Makes those and my belovéd beet
To be more sweet.
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink
Spiced to the brink.

_Robert Herrick._

AROUND THE WASSAIL-BOWL.

A jolly wassail-bowl,
A wassail of good ale;
Well fare the butler's soul
That setteth this to sale;
Our jolly wassail.

Good dame, here at your door
Our wassail we begin,
We are all maidens poor,
We pray now let us in
With our wassail.

Our wassail we do fill
With apples and with spice,
Then grant us your good-will
To taste here once or twice
Of our good wassail.

If any maidens be
Here dwelling in this house,
They kindly will agree
To take a full carouse
Of our wassail.

But here they let us stand
All freezing in the cold:
Good master, give command
To enter and be bold,
With our wassail.

Much joy into this hall
With us is entered in,
Our master first of all
We hope will now begin
Of our wassail.

And after, his good wife
Our spicéd bowl will try;
The Lord prolong your life!
Good fortune we espy
For our wassail.

Some bounty from your hands
Our wassail to maintain;
We'll buy no house nor lands
With that which we do gain
With our wassail.

This is our merry night
Of choosing king and queen;
Then be it your delight
That something may be seen
In our wassail.

It is a noble part
To bear a liberal mind;
God bless our master's heart!
For here we comfort find
With our wassail.

And now we must be gone
To seek out more good cheer,
Where bounty will be shown
As we have found it here
With our wassail.

Much joy betide them all,
Our prayer shall be still,
We hope and ever shall
For this your great good-will
To our wassail.

FROM DOOR TO DOOR.

Here we come a wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a wand'ring,
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too,
And God bless you and send you a happy New Year.

Our wassail-cup is made
Of the rosemary tree,
And so is your beer
Of the best barley.
Love and joy, etc.

We are not daily beggars
That beg from door to door,
But we are neighbors' children
Whom you have seen before.
Love and joy, etc.

Good master and good mistress,
As you sit by the fire,
Pray think of us poor children
As wand'ring in the mire.
Love and joy, etc.

We have a little purse
Made of ratching leather skin;
We want some of your small change
To line it well within.
Love and joy, etc.

Call up the butler of this house,
Put on his golden ring;
Let him bring us a glass of beer,
And the better we shall sing.
Love and joy, etc.

Bring us out a table,
And spread it with a cloth;
Bring us out a mouldy cheese,
And some of your Christmas loaf.
Love and joy, etc.

God bless the master of this house,
Likewise the mistress too
And all the little children
That round the table go.
Love and joy, etc.

WASSAILING CAROL.

We wish you merry Christmas, also a glad New Year;
We come to bring you tidings to all mankind so dear:
We come to tell that Jesus was born in Bethl'em town,
And now He's gone to glory and pityingly looks down
On us poor wassailers,
As wassailing we go;
With footsteps sore
From door to door
We trudge through sleet and snow.

A manger was His cradle, the straw it was His bed,
The oxen were around Him within that lowly shed;
No servants waited on Him with lords and ladies gay;
But now He's gone to glory and unto Him we pray.
Us poor wassailers, etc.

His mother loved and tended Him and nursed Him at her breast,
And good old Joseph watched them both the while they took their rest;
And wicked Herod vainly sought to rob them of their child,
By slaughtering the Innocents in Bethlehem undefiled.
But us poor wassailers, etc.

Now, all good Christian people, with great concern we sing
These tidings of your Jesus, the Saviour, Lord and King;
In poverty He passed His days that riches we might share,
And of your wealth He bids you give and of your portion spare
To us poor wassailers, etc.

Your wife shall be a fruitful vine, a hus'sif good and able;
Your children like the olive branches round about your table;
Your barns shall burst with plenty and your crops shall be secure,
If you will give your charity to us who are so poor,
Us poor wassailers, etc.

And now no more we'll sing to you because the hour is late,
And we must trudge and sing our song at many another gate;
And so we'll wish you once again a merry Christmas time,
And pray God bless you while you give good silver for our rhyme.
Us poor wassailers, etc.

A CAROL AT THE GATES.

Here we come a-whistling through the fields so green;
Here we come a-singing, so fair to be seen.
God send you happy, God send you happy,
Pray God send you a happy New Year!

The roads are very dirty, my boots are very thin,
I have a little pocket to put a penny in.
God send you happy, etc.

Bring out your little table and spread it with a cloth,
Bring out some of your old ale, likewise your Christmas loaf.
God send you happy, etc.

God bless the master of this house, likewise the mistress, too,
And all the little children that round the table strew.
God send you happy, etc.

The cock sat up in the yew-tree, the hen came chuckling by,
I wish you a merry Christmas, and a good fat pig in the sty.
God send you happy, etc.

WANDERING WASSAILERS.

Wassail, wassail, all over the town,
Our bread it is white, and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl it is made of the maplin tree,
So here, my good fellow, I'll drink it to thee.

The wassailing bowl, with a toast within,
Come, fill it up unto the brim;
Come fill it up that we may all see;
With the wassailing bowl I'll drink to thee.

Come, butler, come bring us a bowl of your best,
And we hope your soul in heaven shall rest;
But if you do bring us a bowl of your small,
Then down shall go butler, the bowl, and all.

O butler, O butler, now don't you be worst,
But pull out your knife and cut us a toast;
And cut us a toast, one that we may all see;
With the wassailing bowl I'll drink to thee.

Here's to Dobbin and to his right eye!
God send our mistress a good Christmas-pie!
A good Christmas-pie as e'er we did see;
With the wassailing bowl I'll drink to thee.

Here's to Broad May and his broad horn,
God send our master a good crop of corn,
A good crop of corn as we all may see;
With the wassailing bowl I'll drink to thee.

Here's to Colly and to her long tail,
We hope our master and mistress heart will ne'er fail;
But bring us a bowl of your good strong beer,
And then we shall taste of your happy New Year.

Be there here any pretty maids? we hope there be some;
Don't let the jolly wassailers stand on the cold stone,
But open the door and pull out the pin,
That we jolly wassailers may all sail in.

_Chappell's Ancient English Melodies._

BRING US IN GOOD ALE.

_Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale;_
_For our blessed Lady's sake, bring us in good ale._

Bring us in no brown bread, for that is made of bran,
Nor bring us in no white bread, for therein is no game,
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no beef, for there are many bones,
But bring us in good ale, for that goeth down at once;
And bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat,
But bring us in good ale, and give us enough of that;
And bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no mutton, for that is often lean,
Nor bring us in no tripes, for they be seldom clean;
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no eggs, for there are many shells,
But bring us in good ale, and give us nothing else;
And bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no butter, for therein are many hairs,
Nor bring us in no pig's flesh, for that will make us boars;
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no puddings, for therein is all God's good,
Nor bring us in no venison, for that is not for our blood;
But bring us in good ale.

Bring us in no capon's flesh, for that is often dear,
Nor bring us in no duck's flesh, for they slobber in the mere;
But bring us in good ale.

_Wright's Songs and Carols._

ABOUT THE BOARD.

Come bravely on, my masters,
For here we shall be tasters
Of curious dishes that are brave and fine,
Where they that do such cheer afford,
I'll lay my knife upon the board,
My master and my dame they do not pine.

Who is't will not be merry
And sing down, down, aderry?
For now it is a time of joy and mirth;
'Tis said 'tis merry in the hall
When as beards they do wag all;
God's plenty's here, it doth not show a dearth.

Let him take all lives longest,
Come fill us of the strongest,
And I will drink a health to honest John;
Come, pray thee, butler, fill the bowl,
And let it round the table troll,
When that is up, I'll tell you more anon.

_New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1642._

BEFORE THE FEAST.

All you that are good fellows,
Come hearken to my song;
I know you do not hate good cheer
Nor liquor that is strong.
I hope there is none here
But soon will take my part,
Seeing my master and my dame
Say welcome with their heart.

This is a time of joyfulness
And merry time of year,
Whereas the rich with plenty stored
Doth make the poor good cheer;
Plum-porridge, roast-beef, and minced-pies
Stand smoking on the board,
With other brave varieties
Our master doth afford.

Our mistress and her cleanly maids
Have neatly played the cooks;
Methinks these dishes eagerly
At my sharp stomach looks,
As though they were afraid
To see me draw my blade;
But I revenged on them will be
Until my stomach's stayed.

Come fill us of the strongest,
Small drink is out of date;
Methinks I shall fare like a prince
And sit in gallant state:
This is no miser's feast,
Although that things be dear;
God grant the founder of this feast
Each Christmas keep good cheer.

This day for Christ we celebrate,
Who was born at this time;
For which all Christians should rejoice,
And I do sing in rhyme.
When you have given God thanks,
Unto your dainties fall:
Heaven bless my master and my dame,
Lord bless me and you all.

_New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1642._

A BILL OF CHRISTMAS FARE.

Come, mad boys, be glad, boys, for Christmas is here,
And we shall be feasted with jolly good cheer;
Then let us be merry, 'tis Saint Stephen's day,
Let's eat and drink freely, here's nothing to pay.

My master bids welcome, and so doth my dame,
And 'tis yonder smoking dish doth me inflame;
Anon I'll be with you, though you me outface,
For now I do tell you I have time and place.

I'll troll the bowl to you, then let it go round,
My heels are so light they can stand on no ground;
My tongue it doth chatter, and goes pitter patter,
Here's good beer and strong beer, for I will not flatter.

And now for remembrance of blessed Saint Stephen,
Let's joy at morning, at noon, and at even;
Then leave off your mincing, and fall to mince-pies,
I pray take my counsel, be ruled by the wise.

_New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1642._

THE MAHOGANY-TREE.

Christmas is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
Little we fear
Weather without
Sheltered about
The Mahogany-Tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free,
Life is but short--
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see,
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust,
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup--
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.

Sorrow, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night
Round the old tree.

_William Makepeace Thackeray._

A CHRISTMAS CEREMONY.

Wassail the trees, that they may bear
You many a plum and many a pear;
For more or less fruits they will bring
As you do give them wassailing.

_Robert Herrick._

WITH CAKES AND ALE.

With cakes and ale, and antic ring
Well tiptoed to the tabor string,
And many a buss below the holly,
And flout at sable melancholy--
So, with a rouse, went Christmassing!

What! are no latter waits to sing?
No clog to blaze? No wit to wing?
Are catches gone, and dimpled Dolly,
With cakes and ale?

Nay, an you will, behold the thing:
The spicéd meat, the minstreling!
Undo Misrule, and many a volley
Of losel snatches born of folly--
Bring back the cheer, be Christmas-king,
With cakes and ale!

_H. S. M._

THE MASQUE OF CHRISTMAS.

(AS IT WAS PRESENTED AT COURT, 1616.)

_The Court being seated_,

_Enter_ CHRISTMAS, _with two or three of the guard, attired in round
hose, long stockings, a close doublet, a high-crowned hat, with a
brooch, a long, thin beard, a truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes,
his scarfs and garters tied cross, and his drum beaten before him._

Why, gentlemen, do you know what you do? ha! would you have kept me out? Christmas, old Christmas, Christmas of London, and Captain Christmas? Pray you, let me be brought before my lord chamberlain, I'll not be answered else: _'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all:_ I have seen the time you have wish'd for me for a merry Christmas; and now you have me, they would not let me in: _I must come another time!_ a good jest, as if I could come more than once a year! Why, I am no dangerous person, and so I told my friends of the guard. I am old Gregory Christmas still, and though I come out of Pope's-head alley, as good a Protestant as any in my parish. The truth is, I have brought a Masque here, out o' the city, of my own making, and do present it by a set of my sons, that come out of the lanes of London, good dancing boys all. It was intended, I confess, for Curriers Hall; but because the weather has been open, and the Livery were not at leisure to see it till a frost came, that they cannot work, I thought it convenient, with some little alterations, and the groom of the revels' hand to 't, to fit it for a higher place; which I have done, and though I say it, another manner of device than your New-Year's-night. Bones o' bread, the king! (_seeing King James._) Son Rowland! Son Clem! be ready there in a trice: quick, boys!

_Enter his Sons and Daughters, (ten in number,) led in, in a string,
by Cupid, who is attired in a flat cap, and a prentice's coat, with
wings at his shoulders._

MISRULE, _in a velvet cap, with a sprig, a short cloak, great yellow
ruff, like a reveller, his torch-bearer bearing a rope, a cheese,
and a basket._

CAROL, _a long tawny coat, with a red cap, and a flute at his
girdle, his torch-bearer carrying a song-book open._

MINCED-PIE, _like a fine cook's wife, drest neat; her man carrying a
pie, dish, and spoons._

GAMBOL, _like a tumbler, with a hoop and bells; his torch-bearer
armed with a colt-staff, and a binding cloth._

POST AND PAIR, _with a pair-royal of aces in his hat; his garment
all done over with pairs and purs; his squire carrying a box, cards,
and counters._

NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT, _in a blue coat, serving-man like, with an orange,
and a sprig of rosemary gilt on his head, his hat full of brooches,
with a collar of ginger-bread, his torch-bearer carrying a
march-pane with a bottle of wine on either arm._

MUMMING, _in a masquing pied suit, with a vizard, his torch-bearer
carrying the box, and ringing it._

WASSEL, _like a neat sempster and songster; her page bearing a brown
bowl, drest with ribands, and rosemary before her._

OFFERING, _in a short gown, with a porter's staff in his hand, a
wyth born before him, and a bason, by his torch-bearer._

BABY-CAKE, _drest like a boy, in a fine long coat, biggin-bib,
muckender, and a little dagger; his usher bearing a great cake, with
a bean and a pease._

_They enter singing._

Now God preserve, as you do well deserve,
Your majesties all, two there;
Your highness small, with my good lords all,
And ladies, how do you do there?

Give me leave to ask, for I bring you a masque
From little, little, little London;
Which say the king likes, I have passed the pikes,
If not, old Christmas is undone.

[_Noise without._

_Chris._ Ho, peace! what's the matter there?

_Gam._ Here's one o' Friday-street would come in.

_Chris._ By no means, nor out of neither of the Fish-streets, admit not a man; they are not Christmas creatures: fish and fasting days, foh! Sons, said I well? look to it.

_Gam._ No body out o' Friday-street, nor the two Fish-streets there, do you hear?

_Car._ Shall John Butter o' Milk-street come in? Ask him.

_Gam._ Yes, he may slip in for a torch-bearer, so he melt not too fast, that he will last till the masque be done.

_Chris._ Right, son.

Our dance's freight is a matter of eight;
And two, the which are wenches:
In all they be ten, four cocks to a hen,
And will swim to the tune like tenches.

Each hath his knight for to carry his light,
Which some would say are torches
To bring them here, and to lead them there,
And home again to their own porches.

Now their intent,--

_Enter_ VENUS, _a deaf tire-woman._

_Ven._ Now, all the lords bless me! where am I, trow? where is Cupid? "Serve the king!" they may serve the cobbler well enough, some of 'em, for any courtesy they have, I wisse; they have need o' mending: unrude people they are, your courtiers; here was thrust upon thrust indeed: was it ever so hard to get in before, trow?

_Chris._ How now? what's the matter?

_Ven._ A place, forsooth, I do want a place: I would have a good place, to see my child act in before the king and queen's majesties, God bless 'em! to-night.

_Chris._ Why, here is no place for you.

_Ven._ Right, forsooth, I am Cupid's mother, Cupid's own mother, forsooth; yes, forsooth: I dwell in Pudding-lane: ay, forsooth, he is prentice in Love-lane, with a bugle maker, that makes of your bobs, and bird-bolts for ladies.

_Chris._ Good lady Venus of Pudding-lane, you must go out for all this.

_Ven._ Yes, forsooth, I can sit anywhere, so I may see Cupid act: he is a pretty child, though I say it, that perhaps should not, you will say. I had him by my first husband; he was a smith, forsooth, we dwelt in Do-little-lane then: he came a month before his time, and that may make him somewhat imperfect; but I was a fishmonger's daughter.

_Chris._ No matter for your pedigree, your house: good Venus, will you depart?

_Ven._ Ay, forsooth, he'll say his part, I warrant him, as well as e'er a play-boy of 'em all: I could have had money enough for him, an I would have been tempted, and have let him out by the week to the king's players. Master Burbage has been about and about with me, and so has old master Hemings, too, they have need of him; where is he, trow, ha! I would fain see him--pray God they have given him some drink since he came.

_Chris._ Are you ready, boys? Strike up! nothing will drown this noise but a drum: a'peace, yet! I have not done. Sing,--

Now their intent is above to present--

_Car._ Why, here be half of the properties forgotten, father.

_Offer._ Post and Pair wants his pur-chops and his pur-dogs.

_Car._ Have you ne'er a son at the groom porter's, to beg or borrow a pair of cards quickly?

_Gam._ It shall not need; here's your son Cheater without, has cards in his pocket.

_Offer._ Ods so! speak to the guards to let him in, under the name of a property.

_Gam._ And here's New-Year's-Gift has an orange and rosemary, but not a clove to stick in't.

_New-Year._ Why, let one go to the spicery.

_Chris._ Fy, fy, fy! it's naught, it's naught, boys.

_Ven._ Why, I have cloves, if it be cloves you want. I have cloves in my purse: I never go without one in my mouth.

_Car._ And Mumming has not his vizard, neither.

_Chris._ No matter! his own face shall serve, for a punishment, and 'tis bad enough; has Wassel her bowl, and Minced-pie her spoons?

_Offer._ Ay, ay: but Misrule doth not like his suit: he says the players have sent him one too little, on purpose to disgrace him.

_Chris._ Let him hold his peace, and his disgrace will be the less: what! shall we proclaim where we were furnish'd? Mum! mum! a'peace! be ready, good boys.

Now their intent is above to present,
With all the appurtenances,
A right Christmas, as of old it was,
To be gathered out of the dances.

Which they do bring, and afore the king,
The queen, and prince, as it were now
Drawn here by love; who over and above,
Doth draw himself in the geer too.

_Here the drum and fife sound, and they march about once. In the second coming up_, CHRISTMAS _proceeds in his song:_

Hum drum, sauce for a coney;
No more of your martial music;
Even for the sake o' the next new stake,
For there I do mean to use it.

And now to ye, who in place are to see
With roll and farthingale hoopéd:
I pray you know, though he want his bow,
By the wings, that this is Cupid.

He might go back for to cry, _What you lack?_
But that were not so witty:
His cap and coat are enough to note
That he is the love o' the city.

And he leads on, though he now be gone,
For that was only his-rule:
But now comes in, Tom of Bosoms-inn,
And he presenteth Mis-rule.

Which you may know, by the very show,
Albeit you never ask it:
For there you may see what his ensigns be,
The rope, the cheese, and the basket.

This Carol plays, and has been in his days
A chirping boy, and a kill-pot:
Kit Cobler it is, I'm a father of his,
And he dwells in a lane called Fill-pot.

But who is this? O, my daughter Cis,
Minced-pie; with her do not dally
On pain o' your life: she's an honest cook's wife,
And comes out of Scalding-alley.

Next in the trace, comes Gambol in place;
And, to make my tale the shorter,
My son Hercules, tane out of Distaff-lane,
But an active man, and a porter.

Now Post and Pair, old Christmas's heir,
Doth make and a gingling sally;
And wot you who, 'tis one of my two
Sons, card-makers in Pur-alley.

Next in a trice, with his box and his dice,
Mac-pipin my son, but younger,
Brings Mumming in; and the knave will win,
For he is a costermonger.

But New-Year's-Gift, of himself makes shift,
To tell you what his name is:
With orange on head, and his ginger-bread,
Clem Waspe of Honey-lane 'tis.

This, I tell you, is our jolly Wassel,
And for Twelfth-night more meet too:
She works by the ell, and her name is Nell,
And she dwells in Threadneedle-street too.

Then Offering, he, with his dish and his tree,
That in every great house keepeth,
Is by my son, young Little-worth, done,
And in Penny-rich street he sleepeth.

Last, Baby-cake that an end doth make
Of Christmas, merry, merry vein-a,
Is child Rowlan, and a straight young man,
Though he come out of Crooked-lane-a.

There should have been, and a dozen I ween,
But I could find but one more
Child of Christmas, and a Log it was,
When I them all had gone o'er.

I prayed him, in a time so trim,
That he would make one to prance it;
And I myself would have been the twelfth
O' but Log he was too heavy to dance it.

Now, Cupid, come you on.

_Cup._ _You worthy wights, king, lords, and knights,_
_Or queen and ladies bright:_
_Cupid invites you to the sights_
_He shall present to-night._

_Ven._ 'Tis a good child, speak out; hold up your head, Love.

_Cup._ _And which Cupid--and which Cupid--_

_Ven._ Do not shake so, Robin; if thou be'st a-cold, I have some warm waters for thee here.

_Chris._ Come, you put Robin Cupid out with your water's and your fisling; will you be gone?

_Ven._ Ay, forsooth, he's a child, you must conceive, and must be used tenderly; he was never in such an assembly before, forsooth, but once at the Warmoll Quest, forsooth, where he said grace as prettily as any of the sheriff's hinch-boys, forsooth.

_Chris._ Will you peace, forsooth?

_Cup._ _And which Cupid--and which Cupid--_

_Ven._ Ay, that's a good boy, speak plain, Robin; how does his majesty like him, I pray? will he give eight-pence a day, think you? Speak out, Robin.

_Chris._ Nay, he is out enough. You may take him away, and begin your dance; this it is to have speeches.

_Ven._ You wrong the child, you do wrong the infant; I 'peal to his majesty.

_Here they dance._

_Chris._ Well done, boys, my fine boys, my bully boys!

THE EPILOGUE.

_Sings._ Nor do you think that their legs is all
The commendation of my sons,
For at the Artillery garden they shall
As well forsooth use their guns,

And march as fine as the Muses nine,
Along the streets of London;
And in their brave tires, to give their false fires,
Especially Tom my son.

Now if the lanes and the allies afford
Such an ac-ativity as this;
At Christmas next, if they keep their word,
Can the children of Cheapside miss?

Though, put the case, when they come in place,
They should not dance, but hop:
Their very gold lace, with their silk, would 'em grace,
Having so many knights o' the shop.

But were I so wise, I might seem to advise
So great a potentate as yourself;
They should, sir, I tell ye, spare't out of their belly,
And this way spend some of their pelf.

Ay, and come to the court, for to make you some sport,
At the least once every year,
As Christmas hath done, with his seventh or eighth son,
And his couple of daughters dear.

_And thus it ended._

_Ben Jonson._

_Santa Claus._

"His back, or rather burden showed
As if it stooped with its own load.
To poise this, equally he bore
A paunch of the same bulk before,
Which still he had a special care
To keep well crammed with thrifty fare."

_Butler._

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash;
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of day to the objects below;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blixen!
To the top of the stoop, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas too;
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound;
He was dressed all in furs from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back;
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

_Clement C. Moore._

THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND.

Strange that the termagant winds should scold
The Christmas Eve so bitterly!
But Wife, and Harry, the four-year old,
Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I,

Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew
More frontward of the mighty fire,
Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew
The heaven that Christian dogs desire--

Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave,
Huge nose on heavy paws reclined,
With never a drowning boy to save,
And warmth of body and peace of mind.

And as our happy circle sat,
The fire well capp'd the company:
In grave debate or careless chat,
A right good fellow, mingled he:

He seemed as one of us to sit,
And talked of things above, below,
With flames more winsome than our wit,
And coals that burned like love aglow.

While thus our rippling discourse rolled
Smooth down the channel of the night,
We spoke of Time: thereat, one told
A parable of the seasons' flight.

Those seasons out, we talked of these:
And I, with inward purpose sly,
To shield my purse from Christmas-trees,
And stockings, and wild robbery

When Hal and Nimblewits invade
My cash in Santa Claus's name,--
In full the hard, hard times surveyed,
Denounced all waste as crime and shame;

Hinted that "waste" might be a term
Including skates, velocipedes,
Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm,
Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds,

Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys,
And all th' infernal host of horns
Whereby to strenuous hells of noise
Are turned the blessed Christmas morns;

Thus, roused--those horns! to sacred rage,
I rose, forefinger high in air,
When Harry cried, some war to wage,
"Papa is hard times ev'ywhere?

"Maybe in Santa Claus's land
It isn't hard times none at all!"
Now, blessed vision! to my hand
Most pat, a marvel strange did fall.

Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!"
He cried, leapt up in wild alarm,
Ran to my Comrade, shelter took
Beneath the startled mother's arm,

And so was still: what time we saw
A foot hang down the fireplace! Then,
With painful scrambling, scratched and raw,
Two hands that seemed like hands of men,

Eased down two legs and a body through
The blazing fire, and forth there came
Before our wide and wondering view
A figure shrinking half with shame,

And half with weakness. "Sir," I said,
--But with a mien of dignity
The seedy stranger raised his head:
"My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he.

But oh, how changed! That rotund face
The new moon rivall'd, pale and thin;
Where once was cheek, now empty space;
Whate'er stood out, did now stand in.

His piteous legs scarce propped him up;
His arms mere sickles seemed to be:
But most o'erflowed our sorrow's cup
When that we saw--or did not see--

His belly: we remembered how
It shook like a bowl of jelly fine:
An earthquake could not shake it now;
He had no belly--not a sign.

"Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare:
I have seen better days," he said:
"But now with shrinkage, loss, and care,
Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head.

"We've had such hard, hard times this year
For goblins! Never knew the like.
All Elfland's mortgaged! And we fear
That gnomes are just about to strike.

"I once was rich, and round, and hale,
The whole world called me jolly brick;
But listen to a piteous tale,
Young Harry,--Santa Claus is sick!

"'Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad man
Comes to my house and talks to me:
'I've got,' says he, 'a little plan
That suits this nineteenth century.

"'Instead of driving as you do,
Six reindeer slow from house to house,
Let's build a Grand Trunk Railway through
From here to earth's last terminus.

"'We'll touch at every chimney-top
An Elevated Track, of course,
Then, as we whisk you by, you'll drop
Each package down: just think the force

"'You'll save, the time! Besides, we'll make
Our millions: look you, soon we will
Compete for freight--and then we'll take
Dame Fortune's bales of good and ill--

"'Why, she's the biggest shipper, sir,
That e'er did business in this world!
Then Death, that ceaseless traveller,
Shall on his rounds by us be whirled.

"'When ghosts return to walk with men,
We'll bring 'em cheap by steam, and fast:
We'll run a branch to heaven! and then
We'll riot, man; for then, at last,

"'We'll make with heaven a contract fair
To call each hour, from town to town,
And carry the dead folks' souls up there,
And bring the unborn babies down!'

"The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash,
Nay every penny I could raise.
My wife e'er cried, ''Tis rash, 'tis rash:'
How could I know the stock-thief's ways?

"But soon I learned full well, poor fool!
My woes began that wretched day.
The President plied me like a tool,
In lawyer's fees, and rights of way,

"Injunctions, leases, charters, I
Was meshed as in a mighty maze;
The stock ran low, the talk ran high,
Then quickly flamed the final blaze.

"With never an inch of track--'tis true!
The debts were large ... the oft-told tale.
The President rolled in splendor new,
--He bought my silver at the sale.

"Yes, sold me out: we've moved away.
I've had to give up everything;
My reindeer, even, whom I ... pray,
Excuse me" ... here, o'er-sorrowing,

Poor Santa Claus burst into tears,
Then calmed again: "My reindeer fleet,
I gave them up: on foot, my dears,
I now must plod through snow and sleet.

"Retrenchment rules in Elfland, now;
Yes, every luxury is cut off,
--Which, by the way, reminds me how
I caught this dreadful hacking cough:

"I cut off the tail of my Ulster furred
To make young Kris a coat of state
That very night the storm occurred!
Thus we become the sport of Fate.

"For I was out till after one,
Surveying chimney-tops and roofs,
And planning how it could be done
Without any reindeers' bouncing hoofs.

"'My dear,' says Mrs. Claus, that night,
A most superior woman she!
'It never, never can be right
That you, deep sunk in poverty,

"'This year should leave your poor old bed,
And trot about, bent down with toys;
There's Kris a-crying now for bread--
To give to other people's boys!

"'Since you've been out, the news arrives
The Elfs' Insurance Company's gone.
Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our lives
Depend on yours: thus griefs go on.

"'And even while you're thus harassed,
I do believe, if out you went,
You'd go, in spite of all that's passed,
To the children of that President!'

"Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits,
These eyes that night ne'er slept a wink;
My path seemed honeycombed with pits,
Naught could I do but think and think.

"But, with the day, my courage rose.
Ne'er shall my boys, my boys, I cried,
When Christmas morns their eyes unclose,
Find empty stockings gaping wide!

"Then hewed, and whacked, and whittled I;
The wife, the girls, and Kris took fire;
They spun, sewed, cut,--till by and by
We made, at home, my pack entire!"

He handed me a bundle here.
"Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick!
Dear boys, don't look for much this year:
Remember, Santa Claus is sick!"

_Sidney Lanier._

OLD CHRISTMAS.

Now he who knows Old Christmas,
He knows a wight of worth,
For he's as good a fellow
As any on the earth;
He comes warm-cloaked and coated,
And buttoned to the chin;
And ere he is a-nigh the door,
We ope to let him in.

He comes with voice most cordial,
It does one good to hear;
For all the little children
He asks each passing year:
His heart is warm and gladsome,
Not like your griping elves,
Who, with their wealth in plenty,
Think only of themselves.

He tells us witty stories,
He sings with might and main;
We ne'er forget his visit
Till he comes back again.
With laurel green and holly
We make the house look gay;
We know that it will please him,
It was his ancient way.

Oh, he's a rare old fellow;
What gifts he gives away!
There's not a lord in England
Could equal him to-day!
Good luck unto Old Christmas,
Long life now let us sing;
He is more kind unto the poor
Than any crownéd king.

_Mary Howitt._

MRS. SANTA CLAUS.

The moon was like a frosted cake,
The stars like flashing beads
That round a brimming punch-bowl break
'Mid spice and almond seeds;
And here and there a silver beam
Made bright some curling cloud
Uprising like the wassail's stream,
Blown off by laughter loud.

It was the night of Christmas Eve,
And good old Santa Claus
His door was just about to leave,
When something made him pause:
"I haven't kissed my wife," quoth he,
"I haven't said good-by."
So back he went and lovingly
He kissed her cap awry.

Now Mrs. Claus is just a bit--
The least bit--of a shrew.
What wonder? Only think of it--
She has so much to do.
Imagine all the stocking-legs,
Of every size and shape,
That hang upon their Christmas pegs
With greedy mouths agape.

These she must fill, and when you see
The northern skies aflame
With quivering light, 'tis only she--
This very quaint old dame--
Striking a match against the Pole
Her whale-oil lamp to light,
That she may see to work, poor soul,
At making toys all night.

"Odd he should kiss me," this she said
Before the sleigh had gone;
"'Tis many a year since we were wed;
I'll follow him anon.
For faithless husbands, one and all,
Ere on their loves they wait,
Their wives' suspicion to forestall
Seem most affectionate."

So, pulling on her seal-skin sacque,
Into her husband's sleigh
She slipped, and hid behind his pack
Just as he drove away.
"Great Bears!" growled Santa in his beard,
"A goodly freight have I;
Were't fouler weather, I had feared
The glacier path to try."

Yet none the less they safely sped
Across the realms of snow--
The glittering planets overhead,
The sparkling frost below--
Until the reindeer stopped before
A mansion tall and fair,
Up to whose wide and lofty door
Inclined a marble stair.