Lyrics & Legends of Christmas-Tide

It was a Christmas almsman
Came to a palace door;
The flambeaux flared, the music blared,
And gleamed the waxen floor.

“Out on thee, for a vagrant!”
A pompous porter cried;
Quick, get thee gone ere goads be drawn
To scourge thy tattered hide!”

The mirth roared to the rafter,
With plenty groaned the board,
Yet naught they gave that almsman gaunt
Save flaunting fleer and ribald taunt,
Despite his bare and bitter want,
From all their Yule-tide hoard!

It was a Christmas almsman
Unto a hovel came;
The walls so grim were drear and dim
With one pale candle flame.

Yet spake the kindly hoveler
Who saw the beggar’s face:
“You’re welcome here, though lean our cheer;
Enter, and bide a space!”

He shambled in; he crouched him down;
He ate their meagre fare;
And lo, they found, when he had sped,
A scrip of gold and jewels red!
The hoveler had housed and fed
An angel unaware!

The Bells of Christmas

“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,
What do you hear as you roam and roam?”
“Master, I list to the bells of Christmas,
The bells of Christmas, calling me home!

“They call and call, and I fain would hasten
Back to the warmth of the old roof-tree,
To the plentiful board and the merry faces,
And the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”

“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,
Why, then, still do you roam and roam?”
“Master, ’twas but a dream they conjured,
The bells of Christmas, calling me home.

“’Twas but a vision out of the distance,
Happy and holy and sweet, forsooth!
’Twas but a vision out of the distance,
Out of the long lost vale of Youth!”

“Pilgrim, you of the loosened lachet,
All of us have our dreams like thee,
And back are borne by the bells of Christmas
To the twilight prayer at the mother’s knee!”

Christmas Ingle Song

Now once more the year has run
(Sun succeeding sceptred sun)
To the time of hallowed birth,
To the holiest tide of earth;
Out with sadness! out with sin!
Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

While we lift our thanks for thrift,
Praise the giver and the gift,
With the holly, berried bright,
Druid ivy sprays unite!—
Long they both have sacred been;
Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

And the back-log,—let it be
From some ancient forest tree
Great of girth, that flames may roar
Up the chimney high and hoar,
Thus to swell our merry din;
Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

Far into the night with song
Let us the old rites prolong!
Cry, “Noel! noel! noel!”
Until peals the midnight bell!
If we peace and love would win,
Let us hail the Christ-Child in!

Neil MacDonald

“Whither away, O Neil MacDonald?
Whither away so fleet hie ye?”
“I have a tryst to keep, my mother,
Under the boughs of the holly tree!”

“Go ye not, O Neil MacDonald!
Go ye not, prithee! prithee!”
“I must keep the tryst, my mother,
Under the boughs of the holly tree!”

Into the night leaps Neil MacDonald;
Every man has a weird to dree;
He will dree his weird this Yule-tide
Under the boughs of the holly tree.

In the north the pale auroras
Flash and waver spectrally;
But the purple shadows slumber
Under the boughs of the holly tree.

Over the burn bounds Neil MacDonald;
Through the bracken plunges he;
He has won to the purple shadows
Under the boughs of the holly tree.

“O my love!” cries Neil MacDonald;
“O my love! my love!” cries she;
And their lips are met together
Under the boughs of the holly tree.

Bitter the frost upon the moor-side,
Bitter the frost, but what recks he,
With his arms about Fiorna
Under the boughs of the holly tree!

“What is that I hear, beloved?
What is that dark shape I see?”
“You but dream, my Neil MacDonald,
Under the boughs of the holly tree.”

“He dreams not, your Neil MacDonald,
Sister, false as the falsest be!”
Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor
Under the boughs of the holly tree!

Hark!—the clan-call of MacGregor!—
Every man has a weird to dree!
He has dreed his, Neil MacDonald,
Under the boughs of the holly tree.

The Star of Bethlehem

Out of the past’s black night
There shines one star
Whose light
Is more than countless constellations are.

High in the east it gleams;—
This radiant star
Whose beams
Are more to man than all the planets are.

Still be thy light displayed,
O Bethlehem star,
Nor fade
Until the circling systems no more are!

Pierol’s Christmas

Into the hall on the night of Yule
Capered the jester, blithe Pierol,
Crying merrily, “Gifts for a fool!”
Sooth, right well did he play the role,
Though the wolf of bitterness gnawed his soul!

Proud his birth as the proudest there,—
Count or baron or haughty knight,
But poverty was his sorry share,—
A lonely tower on a barren height
(And a wit as bright as his purse was light).

So under the motley he hid his name;
Under the motley he hid his heart;
But he could not hide nor he could not tame
His leaping spirit that would out-start,
Nor his face,—Endymion’s counterpart.

“Gifts for a fool!” Troth, they loved him well,—
Loved his beauty and blithesomeness,
Loved his quips and lyric spell
Of the songs he sang with so gay a stress,
And his head thrown back like a hawk in jess!

So they tossed him,—this one a golden chain,
That one a bracelet, another a ring;
Till out of all of that feasting train
There was only a maid who had failed to fling
Some bauble to him,—some costly thing.

And she,—how fair like the thorn in May
She seemed as she sat in her stainless guise!—
As he paused in his pirouetting gay,
Caught to heart the look in his fearless eyes
That were fixed upon her in yearning wise;

And raising a hand,—ne’er was shapelier
By prince or paladin won, I wis,
In the shock of the lists, or the silken stir
Of the courts of Love who is queen of bliss!—
She cast him the honeyed boon of a kiss.

“Gifts—for a—fool!” far, fainter the cry
Drooped in the distance to quaver and shift,
A moment to linger, and then to die.
Of all that meed of a jester’s thrift
Which to Pierol was the dearest gift?

Song for the Eve of Yule

Here’s a fig for Melancholy,
Now the year is at the Yule!
Welcome Fun and welcome Folly!
Welcome anything that’s jolly!
What say you, sweet Mistress Molly,
Shall not Love and Laughter rule?

Come and close about the ingle
While the caverned chimney roars!
Song and merriment shall mingle
Till the very rafters tingle;
Then shall sound the jangle-jingle
Of the sleigh-bells at the doors!

Out upon all frowning faces!
Out upon the ghost of Gloom!
In with games and glees and graces!
Loose (for once) smug Custom’s traces;
Put old Momus through his paces!
Give the merry maskers room!

Aye, a fig for Melancholy!
Garland Love, let Laughter rule!
Hail to Fun and hail to Folly!
Hail the jovial and the jolly!
Shall we not, sweet Mistress Molly,
Now the year is at the Yule!

The Three Kings

Came those monarchs, grave and hoar,
With their gifts, a goodly store,
Gold and frankincense and myrrh,
On that holy night of yore,—

Ator, Sator, Sarasin,
In their hallowed purpose kin,
Following the guiding star,
Each a sacred goal to win.

Did they bear their offerings,
Such a wealth of precious things,
Unto one of princely place,
Sprung, like them, from earthly kings?

Nay, but to an infant born
In a lowly spot forlorn
Yet around whose glorious face
Shone a halo like the morn!

For a spirit unto each
Spake in no uncertain speech,
Saying, “In a manger lies
One who God to man shall teach;
One who shall the night o’erthrow,
Bearing heaven with Him below,—
Love that triumphs over hate,
Peace and joy that conquer woe.”

So those monarchs, men of fame,
Bowed before Him, blessed His name,
Laid their offerings at His feet,
Passed as swiftly as they came.

Stretch the years, a checkered chart,
Since they played their deathless part,
Yet to-day may we, like them,
Giving, hold the Christ at heart.

The Wise Men

The Wise Men wander across the wold,
(O the Star in the sky!)
Bearing their goodly gifts of gold.
(How the low wind whispereth by!
Whispereth
Of birth, not death,
With joy in its lifted cry!)

The Wise Men come unto Bethlehem;
(O the Star in the sky!)
A star is the beacon that guideth them.
(How the soft wind hasteneth by!
Hasteneth
The while it saith,
“O the Light of the World is nigh!”)

The Wise Men kneel at the infant’s feet,
(O the Star in the sky!)
And the loving mother smileth sweet.
(While the wind it hurrieth by,—
Hurrieth
As it gladly saith,
“O the Hope of the World is high!”)

The Wise Men rise, and they go their ways;
(O the Star in the sky!)
And all this happened in the ancient days.
(But the wind still gladdeneth by,—
Gladdeneth
At the death of Death,
That Life hath the victory!)

A Yule Song

Who cries ’tis folly to wreathe the bright holly?
Who is it scoffs at the mistletoe bough?
Marry, then, out on him! marry, then, flout on him!
If there’s a time to be jolly, ’tis now!

Berry-tide, cherry-tide, each is a merry tide,
And there’s charm in the nutting, I vow!
But none surpasses,—how say you, my lasses?—
The time for up-hanging the mistletoe bough!

Reason,—away with it! Men have grown gray with it,
Pondering why and considering how;
We have no part in it,—nay, and no heart in it!—
Under the droop of the mistletoe bough!

So, lads, your choices all! Lift, maids, your voices all!
Love levels prince with the man at the plough.
We’ll make our boast of it, we’ll make our toast of it,—
Ne’er may it wither, the mistletoe bough!

The Christmas Hunter

With blare of horn and holloa,
Who is it forth doth fare?
It is the Christmas Hunter
Who rides adown the air.

Upon his wild steed, Sleipnir,
He storms across the sky;
And like the moan of ocean
His vanguard surges by.

They are the Judas-hearted,—
They are the souls of them
That spurned God’s own anointed,
The Man of Bethlehem.

For them nor peace nor joyance
At this high tide of Yule,
Since they are doomed to follow
The Hunter’s iron rule.

Rage fills his veins with riot
When peals the Christmas mirth,
For memory bears him backward
When he had power on earth.

So mad he whirls his minions
Behind him fast and far,
Without or pause or pity,
From star to utmost star.

The once almighty Odin
Whom Christ hurled from his height,
He is the Christmas Hunter
Who roams the voids of night.

A Christmas Song

O’er the wastes the crows are calling—
Caw! Caw!
In the hedges of the haw,
Sparrows with their merry clatter
Cheep and chatter,—
Naught’s the matter!
Marry, marry! naught’s the matter!
Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!
All the waking world’s aglow!
And the mirthful bells of Christmas
Ring across the snow!

Down the garden Colin’s calling—
Mollie! Mollie!
In the thickets of the holly
Choruses the hidden starling,
Saucy darling!
You’re behind her!
Kiss her, kiss her, when you find her!
Then it’s ho! heigh-ho!
Who’s for worry, who’s for woe,
When the wooing bells of Christmas
Ring across the snow?

A Lover to His Rhyme

Go seek her out, my rhyme,
Her of the cruel heart,
And with your softest chime,
And with your blandest art,
Plead that this merry time
May see her frowns depart.

And whisper, ah, so low!—
(And mark ye if she sigh!)
That sprays of mistletoe
Are plucked to hang on high,
That holly berries glow,
That Christmas-tide is nigh.

And if ye win one smile,
O speed ye hither swift!
From eyes cast down the while
The aching gloom will lift,
And in the orchard aisle
Will flower the frozen drift.

More I that ray will prize
Than pearls of orient birth;
’Twill set the wintry skies
A-dazzle over earth;
And love, in lilied guise,
Will light the Christmas hearth.

The Christmas Pilgrimage

(Bethlehem)

What means this waiting throng?
Whence have these weary, way-worn wanderers come?
Why rises, in strange tongues, the expectant hum,
Like that tense under-song
The joyful Jordan voices in the spring
Till Hermon hearkens, leaning grandly down,
And wearing still his shimmering snowy crown?
Soon will these murmuring lips with ardor sing,
And soon these lifted faces, wan or brown,
Glow into worship that is rapturing.
Back will be thrown the consecrated door,
And then these feet, from many a distant shore,
Be privileged to press the hallowed floor.

Why have they come,—the hardy mountaineer
From Lebanon’s cedars and their checkered shade?
The merchant and the snowy-mantled maid
Who hold great Nilus dear?
Why have they come,—the men with restless eyes
And pallid cheeks that tell of norland skies?
Why have they come,—the Latin and the Greek?
Do pilgrims thus this sanctuary seek
Because ’twas here
For year on fiery year
The red earth drank
The deluged blood of Paynim and of Frank?
Or do they surge to see
The antique symmetry
Of springing arch and carven pillar fine,
In this old holy house of Constantine?

Ah, no! ah, no! To them the memory
Of war is not, and monarchs play no part
In any thought that stirs an eager heart.
They have no eyes to see
A single graceful groining. What care they
If here, upon a bygone Christmas-day,
The King-crusader, Baldwin, took his crown!
Or what to them the saint of blest renown
In yonder sepulchre, now crumbling clay!
Their patient feet one precious spot would press,
Their yearning eyes would lovingly caress
The time-dulled silver star
Sunk deep within the pavement, footfall-worn:
“Here, of the Virgin Mary, Christ was born,”
They read, these pilgrims who have plodded far.
They read and pass and ponder. Few can see
The tiny chapel and the dim-lit shrine,
And feel no thrill, despite the mummery,
Of something more divine
Within the breast than ever pulsed before.
Then let us pilgrims be
Upon this sacred day we all adore!
Although our mortal feet touch not the floor,
Although our mortal eyes may not behold,
Our spirits may take flight,
And with immortal sight
Stand where the prayerful wise-men stood of old
In ecstasy of adoration, when
They saw the Savior of the sons of men.

The Yule-Log

Hale the Yule-log in!
Heap the fagots high!
With a merry din
Rouse old Revelry!
Cry “Noel! Noel!”
Till the rafters ring,
And the gleeful bell
Peals its answering!

Brim the Christmas cup
From the wassail-bowl,
Now the flame leaps up
With its ruddy soul!
In the glowing blaze
How the dancers spin!
Deftest in the maze,
Nimble Harlequin!

Grim Snapdragon comes
With his mimic ire,
And his feast of plums
Smothered in the fire.
O the days of mirth,
And the nights akin!
Heap the Christmas hearth;
Hale the Yule-log in!

Ballad of the Christmas Tryst

“It’s hey! my merry huntsman,
With hound and hawk and horn,
Where hie ye to the hunting
This crispy Christmas morn?”

“It’s ho! mine ancient gossip,
To Wildmere wood I go,
To seek beneath the boughs of Yule
The roebuck and the roe.”

“It’s ha! my merry huntsman,
A cunning tongue have ye;
With deer ye keep no Christmas tryst
Beneath the greenwood-tree.”

“It’s hist! mine ancient gossip,
I prithee, speak me low,
Lest they that love me not should hear
To Wildmere wood I go.”

“It’s list! my merry huntsman,
They wot thy coming well,
And wait thee where the pathway dips
To cross the birken dell.”

“It’s good! mine ancient gossip,
How many may there be
Betwixt me and my Christmas tryst
Beneath the greenwood-tree?”

“It’s hark! my merry huntsman,
There’s Bernard of the Bow,
Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,
And Giles of Clariveaux;

“There’s Giles, my merry huntsman,
The wiliest of men,
Brother in blood, though black his heart,
To one whose name ye ken.”

“Gramercy! ancient gossip,
And shall these stay my foot?
Then may the House of Hardigrave
Be withered to the root!”

He gave his page his hound in leash,
His hawk and eke his horn,
And gaily did he onward ride
Beneath the Christmas morn.

And now the birken dell was won,
And now the shallow ford,
And now he heard the scabbard ring
Its answer to the sword.

And forth from out the coppice deep
Rode Bernard of the Bow,
Sir Egbert of the Crooked Arm,
And Giles of Clariveaux.

Small parley was there then, God wot,
But bickering of steel,
And down clashed Bernard of the Bow
Beneath his charger’s heel.

And Egbert of the Crooked Arm
Reeled sidewise as he knew
The sharp bite of a falchion’s point
His stricken harness through.

Then clear rang out the huntsman’s shout,
Right merrily cried he,
“God’s with the son of Hardigrave
Who loves La Belle Marie!”

Oh, deep cursed Giles of Clariveaux
To hear his sister’s name,
While ’neath his vizor burned his eyes
Like orbs of evil flame!

“Have at thee, Hardigrave!” he hissed,
“This riding thou shalt rue!”
And round them like a fiery mist
The spiteful sparks outflew.

’Twas parry, cut and countercut,
And fiercer-faced the while
Grew treacherous Giles of Clariveaux
To mark the huntsman’s smile.

And seeing he was sore beset,
That urgent grew his need,
He aimed a caitiff’s coward blow
To maim his foeman’s steed.

But vain that cruel, craven thrust,
For whiles he strove to rein
The shoulder of his sword-arm
Was riven half in twain.
* * * * *
O starling in the thicket, see
Where, eyes with love aglow,
Adown the forest pathway goes
The rose of Clariveaux!

And hearken, O ye holly boughs!
And, O ye larches, list!
It is the song of one who rides
To keep his Christmas tryst.

A Knight’s Christmas

I hear the shrilling hautboys sound,
The thrilling drums take up the din,
And through the doorway’s gaping bound
A lusty, mincing manikin
Bears, garlanded, the boar’s head in.

The great bells clamor in the tower
Their jubilation. Down the hall
Mirth bursts into a brilliant flower
Of quip and toast and madrigal;
“Noel! Noel! Noel!” cry all.

And yet joy seems a thing foredone
Forevermore in every place
Beneath the red rays of the sun;—
What is Christ’s mass that wrought man grace
Without the favor of love’s face!

The White Ladye

“The flax upon your distaff
Is yellow as your hair,
But why, on Christmas even,
Thus spin you, maiden fair?

“The joy-bells in the steeples
Are ringing clear and wide;
O stop the whirring spindle,
And put the flax aside!”

“Nay, but I may not, master,
Although I weary be,
Lest through the open shutter
Should peer the White Ladye;

“And find my treadle idle,
My flax in tangled fold,
And on the merry morrow
Forget her gift of gold.

“For to the slothful virgin
She causeth sorrowing,
But to the thrifty maiden
A blessing she doth bring!”

A soft touch at the shutter,—
A face divine to see!
It is the fairy spinner,
It is the White Ladye!

The Wizard People

Adown the ways of winter,
Above the vasts of snow,
With woven flame their sandals shod,
Through airy wastes by paths untrod,
The wizard people go.

By day their feats are hidden,
But night beholds their mirth,
When in the abysses of the air
Their sorceries they flaunt and flare
Above a wondering earth.

In vain the hilltops hearken,
Their lips no sound reveal;
But ever on, from arc to arc,
Across the spangled depths of dark
Their pennons whirl and wheel.

Why come they? Who can answer?
Whence go they? Who can tell?
Flaming and fading down the night,
A mystery, a dream-delight,
A splendor and a spell!

Such are the wizard people,
The brethren of the pole;
And though man long has sought to gain
Their secret, suns shall wax and wane
Ere he shall read their soul!