THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ But let it whistle as it will,

       We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.

       Each age has deemed the new-born year

       The fittest time for festal cheer;

       E’en, heathen yet, the savage Dane

       At Iol more deep the mead did drain;

       High on the beach his galleys drew,

       And feasted all his pirate crew;

       Then in his low and pine-built hall,

       Where shields and axes decked the wall,

       They gorged upon the half-dressed steer;

       Caroused in seas of sable beer;

       While round, in brutal jest, were thrown

       The half-gnawed rib and marrowbone;

       Or listened all, in grim delight,

       While scalds yelled out the joys of fight.

       Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,

       While wildly-loose their red locks fly,

       And dancing round the blazing pile,

       They make such barbarous mirth the while,

       As best might to the mind recall

       The boist’rous joys of Odin’s hall.

       And well our Christian sires of old

       Loved, when the year its course had rolled,

       And brought blithe Christmas back again,

       With all his hospitable train.

       Domestic and religious rite

       Gave honour to the holy night;

       On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;

       On Christmas Eve the mass was sung;

       That only night in all the year

       Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.

       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 servingman;

       Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,

       Crested with bays 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 savoury goose.

       Then came the merry maskers 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;

       White shirts supplied the masquerade,

       And smutted cheeks the visors made;

       But oh! what maskers 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 could cheer

       The poor man’s heart through half the year.

       Still linger, in our Northern clime,

       Some remnants of the good old time;

       And still, within our valleys here,

       We hold the kindred title dear,

       Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim

       To Southern ear sounds empty name;

       For course of blood, our proverbs deem,

       Is warmer than the mountain-stream.

       And thus my Christmas still I hold

       Where my great grandsire came of old,

       With amber beard, and flaxen hair,

       And reverend apostolic air -

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