No harmful thoughts their revels blight,-- Devoid of bitter hate and spite, They hold their merriment;-- And, till the chimes tell noon at night, Their joy shall be unspent! "Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall, And crowd his kitchen wide; For there, he saith, both free and thrall Shall sport this good Yule-tide! "Come hasten, gossips!" the mummers cry, Throughout old Torksey town; "We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully, The gossip and the clown. Heigho! whence cometh that cheery shout? 'Tis the Yule-log troop,--a merry rout! The gray old ash that so bravely stood, The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood,[5] They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule; And kirtled Jack is placed astride: On the log to the grunsel[6] he shall ride! "Losels, yoke all! yoke to, and pull!" Cries Dick the wright, on long-eared steed; "He shall have thwack On lazy back, That yoketh him not, in time of need!" A long wain-whip Dick doth equip, And with beans in the bladder at end of thong, It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and strong;-- Yet clown and maid Give eager aid,-- And all, as they rattle the huge block along, Seem to court the joke Of Dick's wain-whip stroke,-- Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong;-- Till with mirthsome glee, The old ash tree Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall,-- Where its brave old heart A glow shall impart To the heart of each guest at the festival. And through the porch, a jocund crowd, They rush, with heart-born laughter loud; And still the merry mimesters call, With jest and gibe, "Laugh, losels all!" Then in the laden sewers troop, With plattered beef and foaming stoup:-- "Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh, The white-haired seneschal: "Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you-- Make merry, my masters, all!" They pile the Yule-log on the hearth,-- Soak toasted crabs in ale; And while they sip, their homely mirth Is joyous as if all the earth For man were void of bale! And why should fears for future years Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears When in the horn 'tis poured? And why should ghost of sorrow fright The bold heart of an English wight When beef is on the board? De Thorold's guests are wiser than The men of mopish lore; For round they push the smiling can, And slice the plattered store. And round they thrust the ponderous cheese, And the loaves of wheat and rye: None stinteth him for lack of ease-- For each a stintless welcome sees, In the Baron's blythesome eye. The Baron joineth the joyous feast-- But not in pomp or pride; He smileth on the humblest guest So gladsomely--all feel that rest Of heart which doth abide Where deeds of generousness attest The welcome by the tongue professed, Is not within belied.