And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came,--a hundred souls and more,-- Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,-- To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim; The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in,--the man that never feared,-- He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers--the men that fought and prayed-- All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, Run from the white man when you find he smells of "Hollands gin!" A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,-- 'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,--poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if--God bless me!--you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill. So John did drink,--and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. 'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl! I love the memory of the past,--its pressed yet fragrant flowers,-- The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,--my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words,--"My dear, where HAVE you been?" A SONG FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836 This song, which I had the temerity to sing myself (_felix auda-cia_, Mr. Franklin Dexter had the goodness to call it), was sent in a little too late to be printed with the official account of the celebration. It was written at the suggestion of Dr. Jacob Bigelow, who thought the popular tune "The Poacher's Song" would be a good model for a lively ballad or ditty. He himself wrote the admirable Latin song to be found in the record of the meeting.