Gaily a younker leads the fair, Proud of his dimpled, blushing care: All clap their hands, both old and young, And soon the misseltoe is hung In the mid-rafters, overhead; And, while the agile dance they thread, Such honey do the plough-lads seize From lips of lasses as the bees Ne'er sip from sweetest flowers of May. All in the rapture of their play,-- While shrilly swells the mirthsome pipe, And merrily their light feet trip,-- Leave we the simple happy throng Their mirth and rapture to prolong. THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. A Christmas Rhyme. CANTO III. Mirth-verse from thee, rude leveller! Of late, thy dungeon-harpings were Of discontent and wrong; And we, the Privileged, were banned For cumber-grounds of fatherland, In thy drear prison-song. What fellowship hast thou with times When love-thralled minstrels chaunted rhymes At feast, in feudal hall,-- And peasant churls, a saucy crew, Fantastic o'er their wassail grew, Forgetful of their thrall?-- Lordlings, your scorn awhile forbear,-- And with the homely Past compare Your tinselled show and state! Mark, if your selfish grandeurs cold On human hearts so firm a hold For ye, and yours, create As they possessed, whose breasts though rude Glowed with the warmth of brotherhood For all who toiled, through youth and age, T' enrich their force-won heritage! Mark, if ye feel your swollen pride Secure, ere ye begin to chide! Then, lordlings, though ye may discard The measures I rehearse, Slight not the lessons of the bard-- The moral of his verse.-- But _we_ will dare thy verse to chide! Wouldst re-enact the Barmecide, And taunt our wretchedness With visioned feast, and song, and dance,-- While, daily, our grim heritance Is famine and distress? Hast thou forgot thy pledges stern, Never from Suffering's cause to turn, But--to the end of life-- Against Oppression's ruthless band Still unsubduable to stand, A champion in the strife? Think'st thou we suffer less, or feel To-day's soul-piercing wounds do heal The wounds of months and years? Or that our eyes so long have been Familiar with the hunger keen Our babes endure, we gaze serene-- Strangers to scalding tears?-- Ah no! my brothers, not from me Hath faded solemn memory Of all your bitter grief: This heart its pledges doth renew-- To its last pulse it will be true To beat for your relief. My rhymes are trivial, but my aim Deem ye not purposeless: I would the homely truth proclaim-- That times which knaves full loudly blame For feudal haughtiness Would put the grinding crew to shame Who prey on your distress. O that my simple lay might tend To kindle some remorse In your oppressors' souls, and bend Their wills a cheerful help to lend And lighten Labour's curse! * * * * *