Every little bough

Bear an apple now;
Hats full caps full !
Threescore sacks full!
Hullo, boys! hullo!

II. DEVONSHIRE

HERE'S to thee, old apple tree,

Whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,

And whence thou may'st bear apples enow!

Hats full! Caps full!

Bushel-bushel-sacks full,
Old parson's breeches full,
And my pockets full too!

Huzza!

Mine Host of "The Golden Apple"

A GOODLY host one day was mine,

A Golden Apple his only sign,

That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine.

My host was the bountiful apple tree;
He gave me shelter and nourished me
With the best of fare, all fresh and free.

And light-winged guests came not a few,
To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew,
And sang their best songs ere they flew.

Old Rhymes.

I slept at night, on a downy bed
Of moss, and my Host benignly spread.

His own cool shadow over my head.

When I asked what reckoning there might be,
He shook his broad boughs cheerily :-

A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree!

Thomas Westwood.

The Holly

A Christmas Chant

NOW of all the trees by the King's highway,

Which do you love the best?

O! the one that is green upon Christmas Day,
The bush with the bleeding breast.

Now the holly with her drops of blood for me:
For that is our dear Aunt Mary's tree.*

Its leaves are sweet with our Saviour's Name, 'Tis a plant that loves the poor:

Summer and Winter it shines the same,

Beside the cottage door.

O! the holly with her drops of blood for me:
For that is our kind Aunt Mary's tree.

'Tis a bush that the birds will never leave:
They sing in it all day long;

But sweetest of all upon Christmas Eve,
Is to hear the robin's song.

'Tis the merriest sound upon earth and sea :
For it comes from our own Aunt Mary's tree.

* See note, p. 318.

So, of all that grow by the King's highway,

I love that tree the best;

'Tis a bower for the birds upon Christmas Day, The bush of the bleeding breast.

O! the holly with her drops of blood for me:

For that is our sweet Aunt Mary's tree.

R. S. Hawker.

A Winter Song

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

William Shakespeare.

Old Winter

LD Winter sad, in snow yclad,

OLD

Is making a doleful din ;

But let him howl till he crack his jowl,

We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift

His hoary, haggard form,

And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand
Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard
Stream loose upon the blast,

And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime
From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death
On herb and flower and tree;

And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds
Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,-in the chimney roar,

And rattle the window pane;

Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,

But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,

On our roof-tiles, till he tire;

But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit

Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;

Come, push the can about ;

From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide
We'll keep old Winter out.

Jack Frost

THE

HE door was shut, as doors should be,
Before you went to bed last night;

Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,

And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept;
And not a single word he spoke,
But pencilled o'er the panes and crept
Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills

Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;

But there are fairer things than these
His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high;

Hills and dales and streams and fields;

And knights in armour riding by,

With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there

Big ships with sails spread to the breeze; And yonder, palm trees waving fair

On islands set in silver seas.

T. Noel.