Silence!
Silence! my boys! not a sound!
Whilst the flagon of liquor moves steadily round,
Tilting so gay, let the Minstrels play
In welcome and joy to the holy day!
The Minstrels
A thousand voices welcome thee from every English home,
And the high-sounding harp is tuned to songs of ancient glee;
The merry bells, with cheerful round, from every moonlit dome,
Surge forth a pleasant music, like a chorus on the sea.
Listen! listen!
Remember the strain—
“Home again! home again!”
“Home! home!”
“Again!”
The breathing of angels, who wander through space,
To summon all hearts to a gathering place.
A gift to the poor,
A song at the door,
Thus hand in hand, and side by side,
We welcome holy Christmas Tide!
Master of Ceremonies
A revel! a revel! a rout! a rout!
“A wassail!” before the year goes out!
Honour the bowl! well wreathed around
With the green life that doth abound
In dismal forests, when the trees
Shiver before the northern breeze;
And Greybeard Winter, frozen sire,
Cuddles the woodman by the fire.
Gather “the poor” the accustom’d dole!
Then for a song, and the Wassail-Bowl!
(The dole is distributed at the hall doors; the Poor hurrah without.)
The Minstrels
Old years have been—New years have been—and fleeted fast away,
Since first brave Father Christmas came, and carol’d at the door;
He always found a cheerful cup, and a jesting word to say,
And a thousand fervent wishes—he deserves a thousand more.
The student in the chamber, the herdsman poor and lowly,
The hermit in the wilderness, the baron proud and high,
Are mindful of the swaddling Babe—the Virgin, pure and holy,
And the Shepherds listening to the Hymns of Angels in the sky!
Old Christmas, he loves innocence—he loves brown vulgar faces—
Good wine—good company—good sport—he is a wondrous soul!
He loves to see old comrades meet, in their accustomed places,
And kindred kindly meeting:—He deserves the Wassail-Bowl.
So follow the rule—
Sing Yule! yule! yule!
And bring the Wassail-bowl!
