Christmas in Poetry. Various

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      Villagers all, this frosty tide,

      Let your doors swing open wide,

      Though wind may follow, and snow beside,

      Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;

      Joy shall be yours in the morning!

      Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,

      Blowing fingers and stamping feet,

      Come from far away you to greet —

      You by the fire and we in the street —

      Bidding you joy in the morning!

      For ere one half of the night was gone,

      Sudden a star has led us on,

      Raining bliss and benison —

      Bliss to-morrow and more anon,

      Joy for every morning!

      Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow —

      Saw the star o’er a stable low;

      Mary she might not further go —

      Welcome thatch, and litter below!

      Joy was hers in the morning!

      And then they heard the angels tell

      “Who were the first to cry NOWELL?

      Animals all, as it befell,

      In the stable where they did dwell!

      Joy shall be theirs in the morning!”

      Good neighbor, tell me why that sound,

      That noisy tumult rising round,

      Awaking all in slumber lying?

      Truly disturbing are these cries,

      All through the quiet village flying,

      O come ye shepherds, wake, arise!

      What, neighbor, then do ye not know

      God hath appeared on earth below

      And now is born in manger lowly!

      In humble guise he came this night,

      Simple and meek, this infant holy,

      Yet how divine in beauty bright.

      Good neighbor, I must make amend,

      Forthwith to bring Him will I send,

      And Joseph with the gentle Mother.

      When to my home these three I bring,

      Then will it far outshine all other,

      A palace fair for greatest king!

      Snow-bound mountains, snow-bound valleys,

      Snow-bound plateaus, clad in white,

      Fur-robed moujiks, fur-robed nobles,

      Fur-robed children, see the light.

      Shaggy pony, shaggy oxen,

      Gentle shepherds wait the light;

      Little Jesus, little Mother,

      Good St. Joseph, come this night.

      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 unwieldy logs,

      That, hissing on the smouldering 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.