Christmas in the Olden Time / Walter Scott

Christmas in the Olden Time

Heap on more wood! — the wind is chill;
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.
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 hail was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe,
Then opened wide the baron’s hail
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doff’d 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 uncontroll’d 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 hail table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d 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 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 ribbon, 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 masquers in,
And carols roar’d 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 visor 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
A poor man’s heart through half the year.

~~
Walter Scott (1771-1832)
from Marmion, 1808

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Walter Scott biography

"Christmas in the Olden Time" read for LibriVox. Courtesy Short Stories Cafe.

The True Christmas / Henry Vaughan

The True Christmas

So stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing
And mortifies the earth and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flowers, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts’ warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show:
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate;
But to the manger’s mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man’s greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherd’s watchfulness:
Whom light and hymns from heaven did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.

~~
Henry Vaughan (1622-1695), 1678

from Silex Scintillans, 1847

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Vaughan biography

"The True Christmas" read for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

Woodman, Spare That Tree! / George P. Morris

Woodman, Spare That Tree!

Woodman, spare that tree!
      Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
      And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
      That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
      Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,
      Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
      And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
      Cut not its earth-bound ties;
O, spare that aged oak,
      Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy
      I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
      Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
      My father pressed my hand --
Forgive this foolish tear,
      But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
      Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
      And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
      And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
      Thy axe shall hurt it not.

~~
George Pope Morris (1802-1864), 1830
from The Deserted Bride, and other poems, 1838

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

George P. Morris biography

"Woodman, Spare That Tree!" read by Bellona Times. Courtesy CBGP Literature.

The Empty Places / Marjory Nicholls

The Empty Places

A wind is sighing wistfully
Down the valley quiet and lonely,
No green leaves to stir and quicken,
Blowing over gray grass only.

Blackened, gray and moss-enamelled,
Here and there are tree-trunks showing,
Lichen-stained, the old stumps crumble
In their rifts, green fern fronds growing.

Desolate and sad the valley,
And the little stream unshaded,
Sadly flows in shrunken beauty
By its banks once forest-shaded.

Now I hear a sheep call faintly,
Then the rustle of the grasses,
Such a mournful silence breaking,
As the wistful wind down-passes.

Tane! Tane! Is it you
Mourning in the empty places
Where your forest trees once grew?
Where the rimu's drooping green
And the kowhai's gold were seen;
And the matai's lofty head
And the rata, burning red;
Where konini berries hung
And the birds your praises sung?
When the sun could only gleam
In shafts, leaf-piercing, on the stream;
When vivid, glowing, pulsing life
Beauty achieved in forest strife –
Tane! Tane! is it you
Mourning in the empty places
Where your forest trees once grew?

~~~
Marjory Nicholls (1890-1930)
from Gathered Leaves, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

17 - Tane: a giant kauri tree, over 2,000 years old.
20-24 - rimu, kowhai, matai, rata, konini - native New Zealand trees.

Marjory Nicholls biography

Beautiful Old Age / D.H. Lawrence

Beautiful Old Age

It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfilment.

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life
lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies.
If people lived without accepting lies
they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins
in their old age.

Soothing, old people should be, like apples
when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft
stillness and satisfaction of autumn.

And a girl should say:
It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! --

And a young man should think: By Jove
my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life! --

~~
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
From Pansies, 1929

[All rights reserved by the author's estate - Please do not copy]

D.H. Lawrence biography

"Beautiful Old Age" read by The Wordman.

The New Plaything / Ring Lardner

The New Plaything

I wonder what your thought will be
And what you'll say and do, sir,
When you come home again and see
What Daddy's got for you, sir.

I wonder if you'll like it, boy,
Or turn away disgusted.
(You've often scorned a nice, new toy
For one that's old and busted.)

I wonder if you'll laugh, or cry
And run in fright to mother,
Or just act bored to death, when I
Show you your brand new brother.

~~~
Ring Lardner (1885-1933)
from Bib Ballads, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ring Lardner biography

"The New Plaything" read by Jack Thro for LibriVox.. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks

(Poem begins at 51:00)

Penny's Top 20 - November 2011

The 20 most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog during November 2011:

  1.  Last Week in October, Thomas Hardy
  2.  Esthétique du Mal, Wallace Stevens 
  3.  Penny (or Penny's Hat), George Dance
  4.  Song (Man's a poor deluded bubble), Robert Dodsley
  5.  The New England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day, 
        Lydia Maria Child
  6.  For the Fallen, Laurence Binyon
  7.  Wind and Silver, Amy Lowell
  8.  Portrait, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
  9.  Rain in the Desert, John Gould Flether
10.  Autumn Song, George Dance

11.  How He Died, Ernest Howard Crosby
12.  September Night, George Dance
13.  Sonnet on the Luxembourg Gallery, Washington Allston
14.  Sonnet. The Token, John Donne
15.  Dance Pageant, Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau
16.  Chaos in Motion and Not in Motion, Wallace Stevens
17.  The Winds, Madison Cawein
18.  Three Grey Days, Francis Sherman
19.  There is a Garden in Her Face, Thomas Campion
20.  November, F.W. Harvey

Source: Blogger, "Stats"