The doughty host has gather'd round Those most for wit and mirth renown'd, And soon each neighbouring Squire will be With all the world in charity-- Its cares and troubles all forgetting, Good-humour'd joke alone abetting. 'Tis good and cheering to the soul To see the ancient wassail bowl No longer lying on its face, Or dusty in its hiding place. It brings to mind a day gone by, Our fathers and their chivalry-- It speaks of courtly Knight and Squire, Of Lady's love, and Dame, and Friar, Of times, (perchance not better now,) When care had less of wrinkled brow-- When she with hydra-troubled mien, Our greatest enemy, the Spleen, Was seldom, or was never seen. Now pledge they round each other's name, And drink to Squire and drink to Dame, While here, more precious far than gold, Sits womanhood, with modest eye-- Glances to her the truth unfold, She shall not pass unheeded by. T'was _woman_ that with health did greet, When Vortigern did Hengist meet-- 'Twas fair Rowena, Saxon maid, In blue-ey'd majesty array'd, Presented 'neath their witching roll To British Chief the wassail bowl. She touch'd to him, nor then in vain, He back return'd the health again. Thus 'tis with feelings kind as true They drink the tribute ever due, Nor would they less, tho' truth denied it, Their love for woman would decide it. Right merry now the hours they pass, Fleeting thru jocund pleasure's glass, The yule-clog too burns bright and clear, Auspicious of a happy year: While some with joke, and some with tale But all with sweeter mulled ale, Pass gaily time's swift stream along, With interlude of ancient song-- And as each rosy cup they drain, Bounty replenishes again. An happy time! hours like to these, Tho' fleeting, never fail to please. Who reigns, who riots, or who sings, Or who enjoys the smiles of kings. What preacher follows half the town; Who pleads, with or without a gown; Who rules his wife, or who the state; Who little, or who truly great; What matters light the world amuse, Where half the other half abuse; Whether it shall be peace or war, Or we remain just as we are-- Is all as one to those we see Around the cup of jollity. Old age, with joke will still crack on, And story will be dwelt upon-- Till Christmas shows his ruddy nose, They will not seek for night's repose, Nor this their jovial meeting close. A FRIEND.