  Last of the wassail nights, Wholesomely merry, Still on the mistletoe Clings the white berry; Still are the apples red, Brown is the ale; Feast of our Saxon sires, Hail and all hail! Bring forth the boar’s head, Bring forth the Rhenish; Tankards that melt away Haste to replenish; Lift on the stoutest log; Loud be the laughter, Until the sound of mirth Shake wall and rafter. Call back the sturdy days When hearts of oak Beat to the lilting strains We now invoke; Call back the hearty days When squire and yeoman Feasted the home-returned Pikeman and bowman. Masques in the Temple hall, Staged for the benchers, Wait while the turning-spit Heaps up the trenchers— Wait while the venison, Basted with spices, Smokes as the richest Of Yule’s sacrifices. Now Merry Andrew comes, Fresh from the morris; Now rustic Corydon Trips it with Chloris; Let the soft virginals Answer the tabor; After this wassail night Come days of labor. Such were the old delights Rounding the Yule; Where sleeps His Majesty, Lord of Misrule? Still are the apples red, Brown is the ale; Feast of our Saxon sires, Hail and all hail! Ornament “THE BODY HAD ROLLED OFF THE SLED.” |
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