When Bill came to, you understand, I ripped the mitten from my hand And went across to ask Bill shake. My limbs were all one pain and ache, I was so weary and so sore I don’t think I’d a stood much more. Bill in his corner bathed his thumb, Buttoned his shirt and glowered glum. ’I’ll never shake your hand,’ he said. ’I’d rather see my children dead. I’ve been about and had some fun with you, But you’re a liar and I’ve done with you. You’ve knocked me out, you didn’t beat me; Look out the next time that you meet me, There’ll be no friend to watch the clock for you And no convenient thumb to crock for you, And I’ll take care, with much delight, You’ll get what you’d a got to-night; That puts my meaning clear, I guess, Now get to hell; I want to dress.’ I dressed. My backers one and all Said, ’Well done you,’ or ’Good old Saul. ’Saul is a wonder and a fly ’un, What’ll you have, Saul, at the Lion?’ With merry oaths they helped me down The stony wood-path to the town. The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk, It made the limestone look like chalk, It was too late for any people, Twelve struck as we went by the steeple. A dog barked, and an owl was calling, The Squire’s brook was still a-falling, The carved heads on the church looked down On ’Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,’ And all the graves of all the ghosts Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts To dance and carol in festivity For joy of Jesus Christ’s Nativity (Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons Beheld ’em from the bell-tower once), Two and two about about Singing the end of Advent out, Dwindling down to windlestraws When the glittering peacock craws, As craw the glittering peacock should When Christ’s own star comes over the wood. Lamb of the sky come out of fold Wandering windy heavens cold. So they shone and sang till twelve When all the bells ring out of theirselve; Rang a peal for Christmas morn, Glory, men, for Christ is born. All the old monks’ singing places Glimmered quick with flitting faces, Singing anthems, singing hymns Under carven cherubims. Ringer Dawe aloft could mark Faces at the window dark Crowding, crowding, row on row, Till all the church began to glow. The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir, All the faces became fire Below the eastern window high To see Christ’s star come up the sky. Then they lifted hands and turned, And all their lifted fingers burned, Burned like the golden altar tallows, Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows, Bringing to mind the burning time When all the bells will rock and chime And burning saints on burning horses Will sweep the planets from their courses And loose the stars to burn up night. Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.