« ПредишнаНапред »
Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize,
We can show how we love them after; The fire blaze cleaves to the bright holly leaves,
And the mistletoe hangs from the rafter; We care not for fruit, whilst we here can see
Their scarlet and pearly berries; For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be, And their pouting lips our cherries.
Wassail ! wassail! &c.
Once more the rapid, fleeting year
Has brought old Christmas to the door ; Come, let us treat him with such cheer
As folks were wont in days of yore, When burgher grave, and belted knight,
And cottage maid, and lady fair, Obeyed the old, familiar sprite,
And, at his bidding, banished CareThat sullen, surly, melancholy wight.
Let's hang from beams, all black with time,
The mistletoe's insidious bough, ’Neath which, as little birds with lime,
Young girls are snared, “ they know not how The horrid thing—they never thought
It half so near-for if they had, *T is certain they had not been caught
Upon the hearth pile up the fire,
And, that it may burn clear and bright,
All envy, hatred, vengeance, spite:
By acting in this way you 'll gain-
Dance through each gladly-swelling vein,
Bring, too, the sparkling wassail bowl,
That jolly Christmas holds so dear,
'd have it warm your soul-
The blessings from some humble roof;
To call them forth : in sober truth,
And you, fair Sovereign of this isle,
Who love to deck the Christmas tree,
Resound with mirth and jollity,
Strength thrives; if pruned with careful hand;
And to the poor throughout the land
A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
Or circled by them, as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
DEAR boy, throw that icicle down,
And sweep this deep snow from the door;
A terrible frown for the poor.
How can age, how can infancy, bear
Of those who have plenty to spare ?
O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away!
And what the great orators say;
And hail down the chimney rebound ;
While the bellows blow bass to the sound.
Abundance was never my
I'll distribute the bounty of Heav'n.
But if I add nought to my store,
I've a mine that will never grow poor.
THERE's not a flower upon the hill,
In spicy lands beyond the sea.
There's silence in the harvest field;
And blackness in the mountain glen, And cloud that will not pass away From the hill tops for many a day;
And stillness round the homes of men.
The old tree hath an older look ;
The lonesome place is yet more dreary; They go not now, the young and old, Slow wandering on by wood and wold ; The air is damp, the winds are cold,
And summer paths are wet and weary.
The drooping year is in the wane,
No longer floats the thistle down;
And the broad fern is rent and brown.