The MISTLETOE.A CHRISTMAS TALE.
A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay,And fresh as op’ning buds of May;Had taken to herself, a Spouse,And plighted many solemn vows,That she a faithful mate would prove,In meekness, duty, and in love!That she, despising joy and wealth,Would be, in sickness and in health,His only comfort and his Friend—But, mark the sequel,—and attend!This Farmer, as the tale is told—Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!His, was the wintry hour of life,While summer smiled before his wife;A contrast, rather form’d to cloyThe zest of matrimonial joy!’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throngAssembled gay, with dance and Song:The Farmer’s Kitchen long had beenOf annual sports the busy scene;The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney widePresented seats, on either side;Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen;The shining Tankard’s foamy ale}Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,}And many a rosy cheek—grew pale.}It happen’d, that some sport to shewThe ceiling held aMistletoe.A magic bough, and well design’dTo prove the coyest Maiden, kind.A magic bough, whichDruidsoldIts sacred mysteries enroll’d;And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,Still warms the soul with vivid fire;Still promises a store of blissWhile bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.ThisMistletoewas doom’d to beThe talisman of Destiny;Beneath its ample boughs we’re toldFull many a timid Swain grew bold;Full many a roguish eye askanceBeheld it with impatient glance,And many a ruddy cheek confest,The triumphs of the beating breast,And many a rustic rover sigh’dWho ask’d the kiss, and was denied.FirstMarg’rysmil’d and gave her LoverA Kiss; then thank’d her stars,’twas over!Next,Kate, with a reluctant pace,Was tempted to the mystic place;ThenSue, a merry laughing jadeA dimpled yielding blush betray’d;WhileJoanher chastity to shewWish’d “the bold knaves would serveherso,”She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”And well she could, she knew the way.TheFarmer, mute with jealous care,Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;Hating the noisy gamesome hostYet, fearful to resign his post;He envied all their sportive strifeBut most he watch’d his blooming wife,And trembled, lest her steps should go,Incautious, near theMistletoe.NowHodge, a youth of rustic graceWith form athletic; manly face;OnMistress Homespunturn’d his eyeAnd breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!OldHomespun, mark’d his list’ning FairAnd nestled in his wicker chair;Hodgeswore, she might his heart command—The pipe was dropp’d fromHomespun’s hand!Hodgeprest her slender waist around;TheFarmercheck’d his draught, and frown’d!And now beneath theMistletoe’TwasMistress Homespun’s turn to go;Old Surly shook his wicker chair,And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”Hodge, to theFarmer’s wife declar’dSuch husbands never should be spar’d;Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,That lights upon the wedded race;And vow’d—that night he would not goUnblest, beneath theMistletoe.The merry group all recommendAn harmless Kiss, the strife to end:“Why not?” saysMarg’ry, “who would fear,“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”Susanobserv’d, that “ancient folks“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”ButKate, who, till that fatal hour,Had held, o’erHodge, unrivall’d pow’r,With curving lip and head asideLook’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,Then, anxious to conceal her care,She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”Now,Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,And angry, that her peevish spouseShould doubt her matrimonial vows,But, most of all, resolved to makeAn envious rival’s bosom ache;Commanded Hodge to let her go,Nor lead her to the Mistletoe;“Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?”Cried she, “we’ve been there twice before!”’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway,That Women oft themselves betray;WhileVanity, alone, pursuing,They rashly prove, their own undoing.
A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay,And fresh as op’ning buds of May;Had taken to herself, a Spouse,And plighted many solemn vows,That she a faithful mate would prove,In meekness, duty, and in love!That she, despising joy and wealth,Would be, in sickness and in health,His only comfort and his Friend—But, mark the sequel,—and attend!This Farmer, as the tale is told—Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!His, was the wintry hour of life,While summer smiled before his wife;A contrast, rather form’d to cloyThe zest of matrimonial joy!’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throngAssembled gay, with dance and Song:The Farmer’s Kitchen long had beenOf annual sports the busy scene;The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney widePresented seats, on either side;Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen;The shining Tankard’s foamy ale}Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,}And many a rosy cheek—grew pale.}It happen’d, that some sport to shewThe ceiling held aMistletoe.A magic bough, and well design’dTo prove the coyest Maiden, kind.A magic bough, whichDruidsoldIts sacred mysteries enroll’d;And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,Still warms the soul with vivid fire;Still promises a store of blissWhile bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.ThisMistletoewas doom’d to beThe talisman of Destiny;Beneath its ample boughs we’re toldFull many a timid Swain grew bold;Full many a roguish eye askanceBeheld it with impatient glance,And many a ruddy cheek confest,The triumphs of the beating breast,And many a rustic rover sigh’dWho ask’d the kiss, and was denied.FirstMarg’rysmil’d and gave her LoverA Kiss; then thank’d her stars,’twas over!Next,Kate, with a reluctant pace,Was tempted to the mystic place;ThenSue, a merry laughing jadeA dimpled yielding blush betray’d;WhileJoanher chastity to shewWish’d “the bold knaves would serveherso,”She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”And well she could, she knew the way.TheFarmer, mute with jealous care,Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;Hating the noisy gamesome hostYet, fearful to resign his post;He envied all their sportive strifeBut most he watch’d his blooming wife,And trembled, lest her steps should go,Incautious, near theMistletoe.NowHodge, a youth of rustic graceWith form athletic; manly face;OnMistress Homespunturn’d his eyeAnd breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!OldHomespun, mark’d his list’ning FairAnd nestled in his wicker chair;Hodgeswore, she might his heart command—The pipe was dropp’d fromHomespun’s hand!Hodgeprest her slender waist around;TheFarmercheck’d his draught, and frown’d!And now beneath theMistletoe’TwasMistress Homespun’s turn to go;Old Surly shook his wicker chair,And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”Hodge, to theFarmer’s wife declar’dSuch husbands never should be spar’d;Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,That lights upon the wedded race;And vow’d—that night he would not goUnblest, beneath theMistletoe.The merry group all recommendAn harmless Kiss, the strife to end:“Why not?” saysMarg’ry, “who would fear,“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”Susanobserv’d, that “ancient folks“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”ButKate, who, till that fatal hour,Had held, o’erHodge, unrivall’d pow’r,With curving lip and head asideLook’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,Then, anxious to conceal her care,She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”Now,Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,And angry, that her peevish spouseShould doubt her matrimonial vows,But, most of all, resolved to makeAn envious rival’s bosom ache;Commanded Hodge to let her go,Nor lead her to the Mistletoe;“Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?”Cried she, “we’ve been there twice before!”’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway,That Women oft themselves betray;WhileVanity, alone, pursuing,They rashly prove, their own undoing.
A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay,And fresh as op’ning buds of May;Had taken to herself, a Spouse,And plighted many solemn vows,That she a faithful mate would prove,In meekness, duty, and in love!That she, despising joy and wealth,Would be, in sickness and in health,His only comfort and his Friend—But, mark the sequel,—and attend!
A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay,
And fresh as op’ning buds of May;
Had taken to herself, a Spouse,
And plighted many solemn vows,
That she a faithful mate would prove,
In meekness, duty, and in love!
That she, despising joy and wealth,
Would be, in sickness and in health,
His only comfort and his Friend—
But, mark the sequel,—and attend!
This Farmer, as the tale is told—Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!His, was the wintry hour of life,While summer smiled before his wife;A contrast, rather form’d to cloyThe zest of matrimonial joy!
This Farmer, as the tale is told—
Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!
His, was the wintry hour of life,
While summer smiled before his wife;
A contrast, rather form’d to cloy
The zest of matrimonial joy!
’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throngAssembled gay, with dance and Song:The Farmer’s Kitchen long had beenOf annual sports the busy scene;The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney widePresented seats, on either side;Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen;The shining Tankard’s foamy ale}Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,}And many a rosy cheek—grew pale.}
’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng
Assembled gay, with dance and Song:
The Farmer’s Kitchen long had been
Of annual sports the busy scene;
The wood-fire blaz’d, the chimney wide
Presented seats, on either side;
Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,
Bedeck’d with holly-boughs, were seen;
The shining Tankard’s foamy ale
}
Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,
}
And many a rosy cheek—grew pale.
}
It happen’d, that some sport to shewThe ceiling held aMistletoe.A magic bough, and well design’dTo prove the coyest Maiden, kind.A magic bough, whichDruidsoldIts sacred mysteries enroll’d;And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,Still warms the soul with vivid fire;Still promises a store of blissWhile bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.
It happen’d, that some sport to shew
The ceiling held aMistletoe.
A magic bough, and well design’d
To prove the coyest Maiden, kind.
A magic bough, whichDruidsold
Its sacred mysteries enroll’d;
And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,
Still warms the soul with vivid fire;
Still promises a store of bliss
While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.
ThisMistletoewas doom’d to beThe talisman of Destiny;Beneath its ample boughs we’re toldFull many a timid Swain grew bold;Full many a roguish eye askanceBeheld it with impatient glance,And many a ruddy cheek confest,The triumphs of the beating breast,And many a rustic rover sigh’dWho ask’d the kiss, and was denied.
ThisMistletoewas doom’d to be
The talisman of Destiny;
Beneath its ample boughs we’re told
Full many a timid Swain grew bold;
Full many a roguish eye askance
Beheld it with impatient glance,
And many a ruddy cheek confest,
The triumphs of the beating breast,
And many a rustic rover sigh’d
Who ask’d the kiss, and was denied.
FirstMarg’rysmil’d and gave her LoverA Kiss; then thank’d her stars,’twas over!Next,Kate, with a reluctant pace,Was tempted to the mystic place;ThenSue, a merry laughing jadeA dimpled yielding blush betray’d;WhileJoanher chastity to shewWish’d “the bold knaves would serveherso,”She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”And well she could, she knew the way.
FirstMarg’rysmil’d and gave her Lover
A Kiss; then thank’d her stars,’twas over!
Next,Kate, with a reluctant pace,
Was tempted to the mystic place;
ThenSue, a merry laughing jade
A dimpled yielding blush betray’d;
WhileJoanher chastity to shew
Wish’d “the bold knaves would serveherso,”
She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”
And well she could, she knew the way.
TheFarmer, mute with jealous care,Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;Hating the noisy gamesome hostYet, fearful to resign his post;He envied all their sportive strifeBut most he watch’d his blooming wife,And trembled, lest her steps should go,Incautious, near theMistletoe.
TheFarmer, mute with jealous care,
Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;
Hating the noisy gamesome host
Yet, fearful to resign his post;
He envied all their sportive strife
But most he watch’d his blooming wife,
And trembled, lest her steps should go,
Incautious, near theMistletoe.
NowHodge, a youth of rustic graceWith form athletic; manly face;OnMistress Homespunturn’d his eyeAnd breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!OldHomespun, mark’d his list’ning FairAnd nestled in his wicker chair;Hodgeswore, she might his heart command—The pipe was dropp’d fromHomespun’s hand!
NowHodge, a youth of rustic grace
With form athletic; manly face;
OnMistress Homespunturn’d his eye
And breath’d a soul-declaring sigh!
OldHomespun, mark’d his list’ning Fair
And nestled in his wicker chair;
Hodgeswore, she might his heart command—
The pipe was dropp’d fromHomespun’s hand!
Hodgeprest her slender waist around;TheFarmercheck’d his draught, and frown’d!And now beneath theMistletoe’TwasMistress Homespun’s turn to go;Old Surly shook his wicker chair,And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”
Hodgeprest her slender waist around;
TheFarmercheck’d his draught, and frown’d!
And now beneath theMistletoe
’TwasMistress Homespun’s turn to go;
Old Surly shook his wicker chair,
And sternly utter’d—“Let her dare!”
Hodge, to theFarmer’s wife declar’dSuch husbands never should be spar’d;Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,That lights upon the wedded race;And vow’d—that night he would not goUnblest, beneath theMistletoe.The merry group all recommendAn harmless Kiss, the strife to end:“Why not?” saysMarg’ry, “who would fear,“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”Susanobserv’d, that “ancient folks“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”ButKate, who, till that fatal hour,Had held, o’erHodge, unrivall’d pow’r,With curving lip and head asideLook’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,Then, anxious to conceal her care,She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”
Hodge, to theFarmer’s wife declar’d
Such husbands never should be spar’d;
Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,
That lights upon the wedded race;
And vow’d—that night he would not go
Unblest, beneath theMistletoe.
The merry group all recommend
An harmless Kiss, the strife to end:
“Why not?” saysMarg’ry, “who would fear,
“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”
Susanobserv’d, that “ancient folks
“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”
ButKate, who, till that fatal hour,
Had held, o’erHodge, unrivall’d pow’r,
With curving lip and head aside
Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,
Then, anxious to conceal her care,
She humm’d—“what fools some women are!”
Now,Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,And angry, that her peevish spouseShould doubt her matrimonial vows,But, most of all, resolved to makeAn envious rival’s bosom ache;Commanded Hodge to let her go,Nor lead her to the Mistletoe;“Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?”Cried she, “we’ve been there twice before!”
Now,Mistress Homespun, sorely vex’d,
By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,
And angry, that her peevish spouse
Should doubt her matrimonial vows,
But, most of all, resolved to make
An envious rival’s bosom ache;
Commanded Hodge to let her go,
Nor lead her to the Mistletoe;
“Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?”
Cried she, “we’ve been there twice before!”
’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway,That Women oft themselves betray;WhileVanity, alone, pursuing,They rashly prove, their own undoing.
’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway,
That Women oft themselves betray;
WhileVanity, alone, pursuing,
They rashly prove, their own undoing.