Labour's Reward

The short cold days, and long cold nights,

The people to the fire invites.

Now happy they who furnished are,

And did, in summer-time prepare

For victuals, drink, and good hot fires,

All which this season now requires.

If geese and sheep with care were fed —

If, at the proper time of year,

You from the sheep the wool did shear —

And, if you afterwards begun,

To have it carded, have it spun,

And wove, and put upon your back,

You'll be warm dressed when others lack.

If you October beer did brew,

You have the credit of it now,

And pleasure of the drinking too.

Provide good cheer, yourselves enjoy,

And all your needless cares destroy

With harmless mirth, and best of cheer,

Good wine, or ale, or humming beer,

And merry Christmas crown the year.

Vitztelly

As I went through the tangled wood

    I heard the Aspen shiver.

"What dost thou ail, sweet Aspen, say,

    Why do thy leaflets quiver?"

    "'Twas long ago," the Aspen sighed--

    How long is past my knowing--

"When Mary Mother rode adown

    This wood where I was growing.

Blest Joseph journey'd by her side,

    Upon his good staff resting,

And in her arms the Heav'nly Babe,

    Dove of the World, was nesting.

Fair was the mother, shining-fair,

    A lily sweetly blowing;

The Babe was but a lily-bud,

    Like to his mother showing.

The birds began, 'Thy Master comes!

    Bow down, bow down before Him!'

The date, the fig, the hazel tree,

In rev'rence bent to adore Him.

I only, out of all the host

    Of bird and tree and flower,--

I, haughty, would not bow my head,

    Nor own my Master's power.

'Proud Aspen,' quoth the Mother-Maid,

    'Thy Lord, dost thou defy Him?

When emperors worship at His shrine,

    Wilt courtesy deny Him?'

I heard her voice; my heart was rent,

    My boughs began to shiver,

And age on age, in punishment,

    My sorrowing leaflets quiver."

Still in the dark and tangled wood,

    Still doth the Aspen quiver.

The haughty tree doth bear a curse,

    Her leaflets aye must shiver.

Longfellow

These good people sang
Songs devout and sweet;
While the rafters rang,
There they stood with freezing feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

way home

bells of waiting Advent ringing

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain.
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hooker's Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that villagers can say
'The Church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial public houses blaze
And Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad,
And Christmas morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? and is it true?
The most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant.

No love that in a family dwells,
No caroling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.

John Btjeman