’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng Assembled gay, with dance and Song: The Farmer’s Kitchen long had been Of annual sports the busy scene; The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney wide Presented seats, on either side; Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean, Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen; The shining Tankard’s foamy ale } Gave spirits to the Goblin tale, } And many a rosy cheek—grew pale. } It happen’d, that some sport to shew The ceiling held a MISTLETOE. A magic bough, and well design’d To prove the coyest Maiden, kind. A magic bough, which DRUIDS old Its sacred mysteries enroll’d; And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar, Still warms the soul with vivid fire; Still promises a store of bliss While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss. This MISTLETOE was doom’d to be The talisman of Destiny; Beneath its ample boughs we’re told Full many a timid Swain grew bold; Full many a roguish eye askance Beheld it with impatient glance, And many a ruddy cheek confest, The triumphs of the beating breast, And many a rustic rover sigh’d Who ask’d the kiss, and was denied. First MARG’RY smil’d and gave her Lover A Kiss; then thank’d her stars, _’twas over_! Next, KATE, with a reluctant pace, Was tempted to the mystic place; Then SUE, a merry laughing jade A dimpled yielding blush betray’d; While JOAN her chastity to shew Wish’d “the bold knaves would serve _her_ so,” She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!” And well she could, she knew the way. The FARMER, mute with jealous care, Sat sullen, in his wicker chair; Hating the noisy gamesome host Yet, fearful to resign his post; He envied all their sportive strife But most he watch’d his blooming wife, And trembled, lest her steps should go, Incautious, near the MISTLETOE. Now HODGE, a youth of rustic grace With form athletic; manly face; On MISTRESS HOMESPUN turn’d his eye And breath’d a soul-declaring sigh! Old HOMESPUN, mark’d his list’ning Fair And nestled in his wicker chair; HODGE swore, she might his heart command— The pipe was dropp’d from HOMESPUN’s hand!