And oft for pence and spicy ale, With winter nosegays pinn’d before, The wassail-singer tells her tale, And drawls her Christmas carols o’er. While ’prentice boy, with ruddy face, And rime-bepowder’d, dancing locks, From door to door with happy pace, Runs round to claim his “Christmas box.” The block upon the fire is put, To sanction custom’s old desires; And many a fagot’s bands are cut, For the old farmers’ Christmas fires; Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng, And Winter meets the warmth of May, Till feeling soon the heat too strong, He rubs his shins, and draws away. While snows the window-panes bedim, The fire curls up a sunny charm, Where, creaming o’er the pitcher’s rim, The flowering ale is set to warm; Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart And children, ’tween their parent’s knees, Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart. And some, to view the winter weathers, Climb up the window-seat with glee. Likening the snow to falling feathers, In Fancy’s infant ecstasy; Laughing, with superstitious love, O’er visions wild that youth supplies, Of people pulling geese above, And keeping Christmas in the skies. As tho’ the homestead trees were drest, In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves; As tho’ the sun-dried martin’s nest, Instead of i’cles hung the eaves; The children hail the happy day-- As if the snow were April’s grass, And pleas’d, as ’neath the warmth of May, Sport o’er the water froze to glass. Thou day of happy sound and mirth, That long with childish memory stays, How blest around the cottage hearth I met thee in my younger days! Harping, with rapture’s dreaming joys, On presents which thy coming found, The welcome sight of little toys, The Christmas gifts of cousins round. The wooden horse with arching head, Drawn upon wheels around the room; The gilded coach of gingerbread, And many-colour’d sugar plum; Gilt cover’d books for pictures sought, Or stories childhood loves to tell, With many an urgent promise bought, To get to-morrow’s lesson well. And many a thing, a minute’s sport, Left broken on the sanded floor, When we would leave our play, and court Our parent’s promises for more. Tho’ manhood bids such raptures die, And throws such toys aside as vain, Yet memory loves to turn her eye, And count past pleasures o’er again. Around the glowing hearth at night, The harmless laugh and winter tale Go round, while parting friends delight To toast each other o’er their ale; The cotter oft with quiet zeal Will musing o’er his Bible lean; While in the dark the lovers steal To kiss and toy behind the screen.