THE MISTLETOE. Mary at his elbow stayed, Oh, oh, the mistletoe! And, oh! we saw by each fond look, Much he tuned and much he sung, Mary still about him hung, Oh, oh, the mistletoe! Till taking courage, he advanced, And struck a jig; then how we danced, Oh, oh, the mistletoe! Mary tripped with panting breath, Till the magic bough beneath, Then she feigned undone her shoe, And seized a kiss-it might be two. Then the kissing time begun, Oh, oh, the mistletoe! Men looked shy, and lasses fun, Oh, oh, the mistletoe! But honest men, whom girls believe, Throughout the year would sigh and grieve, Did they not kiss on Christmas-eve. Oh, oh, the mistletoe! THE MISTLETOE. (BARRY CORNWALL.) WHEN winter nights grow long, And winds without blow cold, We sit in a ring round the warm wood fire, And listen to stories old! And we try to look grave (as maids should be), The poets have laurels, and why not we? How pleasant, when night falls down, To see them come in to the blazing fire, O, the holly, the bright green holly! It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly! Sometimes (in our grave house Observe, this happeneth not;) But at times the evergreen laurel boughs, And the holly are all forgot, And then! what then! why, the men laugh low, Oh, brave is the laurel! and brave is the holly, CHURCH BELLS. (JOHN KEBLE.) AKE me to-night, my mother dear, That I may hear The Christmas Bells, so soft and clear, To high and low glad tidings tell, How God the Father loved us well, How God the Eternal Son Came to undo what we had done, How God the Paraclete, Who in the chaste womb formed the Babe so sweet, Wake me, that I the twelvemonth long May bear the song About with me in the world's throng; Deep in my heart, when I would sing; Each of the twelve good days Its earnest yield of duteous love and praise, Ensuring happy months, and hallowing common ways. Wake me again, my mother dear, That I may hear The peal of the departing year. O well I love, the step of Time Should move to that familiar chime: Fair fall the tones that steep The Old Year in the dews of sleep, The New guide softly in With hopes to sweet sad memories akin! Long may that soothing cadence ear, heart, conscience win. 北 DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. (PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.) ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours smile instead, For the year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, As an earthquake rocks a corse So White Winter, that rough nurse, Solemn hours! wait aloud For your mother in her shroud. As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year :-be calm and mild, Trembling hours, she will arise With new love within her eyes. January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps-but, 0. , ye hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers. |