Here are some verses in older English styles, for recitation at Christmas time. In the Old English Christmas Fete at Jubilee Community Arts in Knoxville TN these verses are recited by the Lord and Lady to take up time during the dancers' costume changes. Click on the image of the Lady to see a larger version of the picture.

Christmas verses in old style are few and hard to find - we don't realize how much of our "ancient" Christmas tradition is no more than 200 years old. Such sites as Wacky Anne's are helpful. A useful academic work on this subject, Marcus, Leah S. The Politics of Mirth: Jonson, Herrick, Milton, Marvell, and the Defense of Old Holiday Pastimes, University of Chicago Press 1986, suggests that searching the collected works of Ben Jonson, Robert Herrick, John Milton, and Andrew Marvell would be worthwhile.

"Lo, now is come our joyfullest feast" is by George Wither (1588-1667), much improved by Washington Irving's abridgement in about 1819. We will use this brief verse to introduce the Fete in 2000.

Sir Walter Scott wrote "Christmas Eve in the Olden Time" in 1808, in an archaizing style. Kathleen and I alternated reciting groups of verses (as indicated by the spacing). I made a number of changes in the text, cutting a few verses, and amending others where the originals didn't make sense to a modern audience. You'll see our amended text, followed by the original in smaller type, with some textual annotations.

Shakespeare's familiar "When Icicles Hang by the Wall" (from Love's Labour's Lost, about 1593) takes about a minute to recite.

"Tom O'Bedlam's Song" has no direct connection with Christmas, and the reciter had best make a brief comment about homelessness at Christmas time. Of uncertain origin, Tom O'Bedlam's Song would seem to me to date from the Elizabeth period or not much after. The text varies a great deal: this version I took from Oscar Williams' venerable "Immortal Poems of the English Language." Kathleen and I, dressed in rags thrown over our costumes, stand at opposite ends of the hall as we recite the verses alternately, then recite "While I do sing" together as we each pass begging down the opposite rows of the audience that face the center. I imagine Tom as a deteriorating schizophrenic, alternately giggling and furious. A great deal of Tom's material is academic, however, and concerns the breakup of the "medieval model" of the universe (see C.S. Lewis, "The Discarded Image".)

"My Lord of Misrule" is taken from a secondary source from The Anatomy of Abuses, by Philip Stubbs (1583). We recite this prose text, alternating lines as indicated by the breaks, and are interrupted at the end by the raucous entry of the Sourwood Morris Dancers.

Finally, some verses by Lord Robert (hey, that's me). These are in iambic tetrameter couplets (doggerel verse). The Lord Robert speaks only in verse, and I think this effect helps create the magickal space of the Fete. Write your own verses! Write something you're comfortable reciting.

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[FROM GEORGE WITHER'S "A CHRISTMAS CAROL"]

Lo, now is come our joyfullest feast!
Let everyone be jolly,
Each room with ivy leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas logs are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meats choke
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if, for cold, it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

In The Sketch-Book (1819-20) Washington Irving began the essay "The Christmas Dinner" with an extremely abridged version (which you see here) of a long poem "A Christmas Carol" by George Wither (sometimes George Withers) (1588-1667), from his Juvenilia, published in 1633 but presumably written earlier. Irving cites his source as "Withers' Juvenilia". Wither is a truly little known poet; his collected works were last published in 1902 (though this edition has been fairly recently reprinted).

I have normalized the spelling, changed a word, "logs" instead of the original "blocks" in line 6, and done an inclusive-language fix in line 2 (originally "Let every man be jolly".

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CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE OLDEN TIME
Walter Scott, 1808, alt.

Heap on more wood! The wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night:

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
Year's only night, mid hymns of praise,
That saw the priest the chalice raise.

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.

Then opened was the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Pow'r laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doffed his pride.
The lord, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.

All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down!

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.

Then the boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
The wassail round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trolls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savory goose.

Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.

Heed, and in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts they wore for masquerade,
And blackened cheeks disguises made.

England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas revel oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

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CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE OLDEN TIME
Sir Walter Scott, 1808 (as Scott wrote it)

Heap on more wood! The wind is chill;         1
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night:

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.         15
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened was the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."         27

All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down!

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.

Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving man;
Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.         42
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.         45
The wassail round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savory goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

1. The first five lines appear in only one Web version of the poem, but they sound authentic to me.
15. In olden times the Mass (the Eucharist, Communion) was celebrated only in the morning, with a few exceptions of which Christmas Eve seems to be the only one known to the poet. Stoled: wearing a stole (a ritual scarf, draped over both shoulders and hanging down in front.)
27. Underogating, pronounced un-DARE-o-GATE-ing, without losing dignity (related to "derogatory"). This verse is the sole citation of this very rare word in the OED. Skip it.
I never heard of "post and pair",
And furthermore, I do not care.
(I later found out that "post and pair" was a card game.)
41. This verse echoes the "Boar's Head Carol", always sung at our Christmas Fete, with rose-mare-eye riming with the previous line.
45. We found these verses a bit, uh, gamey for a modern audience, and eliminated them. The boar is obviously at least a kissin' cousin of the "monster's head" in Henry Purcell's "Dido and Aeneas" (verses by Nahum Tate, if I remember):
With tushes far exceeding
Those did Venus' huntsman tear.
The "green-garbed ranger" would I think put any modern audience (or at least this elderly Army veteran) in mind of a guy in fatigues with a camouflage jump badge.

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WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL
William Shakespeare (Love's Labour's Lost)

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 nipped and ways be foul,
then nightly sings the staring owl,
to-whit, to-who, 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,
to-whit, to-who, a merry note,
while greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Nail: blows on his fingernails to warm them. Keel: skim. Saw: tiresome adage. At this season of the year parsons were wont to engage in long tedious readings from the Catena Aurea, known as chain saws. Crabs: crab apples.

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TOM O'BEDLAM'S SONG

From the hag and hungry goblin
that into rags would rend ye,
and the spirit that stands by the naked man
in the book of moons, defend ye,
that of your five sound senses
ye never be forsaken,
nor wander from yourselves with Tom
abroad to beg your bacon.

While I do sing, any food,
any feeding, drink, or clothing?
Come, dame or maid, be not afraid,
poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty barren years have I
twice twenty been enragèd,
and of forty been three times fifteen
in durance soundly cagèd
on the lordly lofts of Bedlam,
with stubble soft and dainty,
brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding-dong,
and a wholesome hunger plenty.

While I do sing, any food....

With a thought I took for maudlin,
and a cruise of cockle pottage,
with a thing thus tall, sky bless you all,
I fell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest,
till then I never wakèd,
till the roguish boy of love where I lay
me found and stripped me naked.

While I do sing, any food....

When I short have shorn my sour-face,
and swigged my horny barrel,
in an oaken inn I pound my skin
as a suit of gilt apparel.
The Moon's my constant mistress,
and the lowly owl my morrow;
The flaming drake and the night-crow make
me music to my sorrow.

While I do sing, any food....

The palsy plagues my pulses,
when I prig your pigs or pullen,
Your culvers take, or matchless make
your chanticleer or sullen.
When I want provant, with Humphry
I sup, and when benighted,
I repose in Powles with waking souls,
yet never am affrighted.

While I do sing, any food....

I know more than Apollo,
for oft when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
in the wounded welkin weeping,
the Moon embrace her shepherd,
and the queen of love her warrior,
while the first doth horn the star of morn,
and the next the heavenly Farrier.

While I do sing, any food....

The gipsy Snap and Pedro
are none of Tom's comradoes.
The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn,
And the roaring boys' bravadoes.
The meek, the white, the gentle,
me handle, touch, and spare not;
but those that cross Tom Rhinoceros
do what the panther dare not.

While I do sing, any food....

With an host of furious fancies
whereof I am commander,
with a burning spear and a horse of air
to the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summoned am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wild world's end,
methinks it is no journey.

While I do sing, any food....

Verse 1: I have no idea what the "book of moons" was. Maybe Tom didn't either. Perhaps he was hallucinating over an almanac.
Verse 2: Tom's arithmetic (one of the first of the arts of the medieval university) is obviously awry. Bedlam (a worn-down form of "Bethlehem") was the celebrated London madhouse, with its caged inmates in lofts.
Verse 3: I think this verse is probably indecent, though I would be hard put to provide the details. Conquest: The Norman Conquest (1066 and all that). The next lines curiously presage Freud's supposition that schizophrenia originates in repressed homosexuality.
Verse 4: Morrow: companion. Drake: dragon.
Verse 5: My tremor makes it difficult for me to steal your pigs or chickens, or your pigeons, or steal the hens from your rooster. When I'm hungry I help myself to what Humphry the horse is eating, and I sleep in the chicken coop (or perhaps in St. Paul's cathedral in London).
Verse 6: I cannot make much sense of the astronomy of this verse. Apollo drives the chariot of the Sun during the day. Welkin: sky. Queen of love: the planet Venus. horn: adorn with the horns of the crescent Moon AND cuckold. Star of morn: Venus again. Farrier: blacksmith who shoes horses.

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MY LORD OF MISRULE
From The Anatomy of Abuses, by Philip Stubbs (1583)

Good and sober neighbors, we are warned of the coming of the Lord of Misrule, of wanton carousers recently rumored to be abroad in our region: First all the wild heads of the parish conventing together, choose them a grand captain of mischief, whom they ennoble with the title of My Lord of Misrule, and him they crown with great solemnity, and adopt for their king.

This king anointed, chooses the twenty, forty, threescore, or a hundred lusty guts like to himself, to wait upon his lordly majesty, and to guard his noble person. Then every one of these his men he invests with liveries of green, yellow, or some other light wanton color.

And as though that were not bawdy enough I should say, they bedeck themselves with scarves, ribbons, and laces, hanged all over with gold rings, precious stones, and other jewels:

this done, they tie about either leg twenty or forty bells with rich handkerchiefs in their hands, and sometimes laid across over their shoulders and necks, borrowed for the most part of their pretty Mopsies and loving Bessies, for bussing them in the dark.

Thus things set in order, they have their hobby horses, dragons, and other antics, together with their bawdy pipers, and thundering drummers, to strike up the Devil's Dance withall, and march these heathen company towards the church and churchyard,

their pipers piping, drummers thundering, their stumps dancing, their bellies bumping, their handkerchiefs swinging about their heads like madmen, their hobby horses and other monsters skirmishing among the throng:

and in this sort they go to the church (though the minister be at prayer or preaching) dancing and swinging their heads, in the church, like devils incarnate, with such a confused noise that no one can hear his own voice.

Then the foolish people, they look, they stare, they laugh, they leer, and mount upon forms and pews, to see these goodly pageants, solemnized in this sort.

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VERSES BY LORD ROBERT:

The Lord and Lady enter between the lines of stave dancers (low-impact morris dancers), and each of them speaks one of these lines:

We bid you welcome to the hall!
There's food and frolic for us all.

At the intermission the Lord offers the audience the boar's head...

All ye that keep the old law,
and ye that eat no lean,
the boar's head this fair evening,
from our best cheese is ta'en,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary,
From our own garden just hard by.

the wassail, and the pudding:

All ye that drive and need to see,
this wassail bowl's of spirit free,
and ye who would your spirits cheer,
your wassail take from this bowl here.
Lest man or maid might yet be glum,
The pudding, too, is soaked with rum.
And while the pudding was yet in the mold,
So was the cook, as I heard told.

To end the intermission, the Lord spoke (in 1999):

On with it, on, enough I say!
Bear this heavy fare away!
On with the dance and merriment,
Bring on the rapper-swords well bent!
Bring on the cloggers' merry board,
While pipes and fiddles tunes afford.
Bring on the maskèd morris' mirth,
And songs of our Redeemer's birth.
Let antlers Abbott's Bromley crown,
And all the Muggle world, SIT DOWN!

Old law: kosher or halal. Muggle: If you're not into Harry Potter, substitute vulgar, modern, normal.

In December 2001 I added these melancholy verses:

In this dark time of burning towers
Sing out these short festive hours.
London saw with weeping eye
Rockets in a blazing sky.
As they resolved where Arthur slumbers,
Join now in these ancient numbers.
Comfort draw from antic mirth,
Hope find in a Saviour's birth.

On with the dances! On the stage
The puppet play from Arthur's age.
Bring on the clatt'ring morris dance,
With mummers' antic countenance.

Let antlers Abbott's Bromley crown,
And all the Muggle world SIT DOWN!

In 2002 and 2003 I further amended the words again:

In this dark time of Mordor's powers,
Sing out these short festive hours.
Sing a world beyond our fears,
An age beyond our bygone years.
Peace where Christ was born and died,
Peace to the faith Mahomet cried.
Comfort draw from antic mirth,
Hope find in a Saviour's birth.
Pray that history's mightiest nation
May yet remove from war's occasion.
I give thanks another year,
Spirit all our hearts repair.

On with the dances! Lark in the Morn,
Jigs and the carol from Wexford town.
Bring on the clatt'ring morris dance,
With mummers' antic countenance.

Let antlers Abbott's Bromley crown,
And all the Muggle world SIT DOWN!

The reference in the post 9/11 verse is to the Battle of Britain in World War II. Supposedly Churchill and his generals swore Hitler's defeat at King Arthur's grave in Wales. - In May 2002 I had my heart repaired - an aortic valve replacement.

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Go to links page (Bob Richmond's site map)

E-mail Lord Robert.

November 24th, 2004