The Baron's Yule Feast E-Book

Thomas Cooper

• Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 82

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The "Baron's Yule Feast" is, the author states,'' a metrical essay, composed chiefly of imperfect and immature pieces," some of them written "many years ago:" but which have no doubt been more or less touched in adapting them to the purposes of a poetical Christmas entertainment. The scene of the poem is laid in the baron's hall of Torksey, in Lincolnshire, which is revived with all the festivities of a Christmas of the olden time. Opportunity is here afforded for the introduction of various songs or narratives in the ballad style. Passing over these, there are a few lines, the concluding ones of the poem, that arrest the reader's attention, and which are calculated to awaken an echo in the breasts of but too many of the people of England.

Leseprobe

The Baron's Yule Feast

A Christmas Rhyme

Thomas Cooper

Contents:

The Baron's Yule Feast

Canto I.

Canto II.

Canto III.

Canto IV.

Notes.

Cover Design: @mei - Fotolia.com

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

Deutschland

ISBN: 9783849646820

The Baron's Yule Feast

Lady, receive a tributary lay From one who cringeth not to titled state Conventional, and lacketh will to prate Of comeliness—though thine, to which did pay The haughty Childe his tuneful homage, may No minstrel deem a harp-theme derogate. I reckon thee among the truly great And fair, because with genius thou dost sway The thought of thousands, while thy noble heart With pity glows for Suffering, and with zeal Cordial relief and solace to impart. Thou didst, while I rehearsed Toil's wrongs, reveal Such yearnings! Plead! let England hear thee plead With eloquent tongue,—that Toil from wrong be freed!

Canto I.

Right beautiful is Torksey's hall, Adown by meadowed Trent; Right beautiful that mouldering wall, And remnant of a turret tall, Shorn of its battlement. For, while the children of the Spring Blush into life, and die; And Summer's joy-birds take light wing When Autumn mists are nigh; And soon the year—a winterling— With its fall'n leaves doth lie; That ruin gray— Mirror'd, alway, Deep in the silver stream, Doth summon weird-wrought visions vast, That show the actors of the past Pictured, as in a dream. Meseemeth, now, before mine eyes, The pomp-clad phantoms dimly rise, Till the full pageant bright— A throng of warrior-barons bold, Glittering in burnished steel and gold, Bursts on my glowing sight. And, mingles with the martial train, Full many a fair-tressed beauty vain, On palfrey and jennet— That proudly toss the tasselled rein, And daintily curvet; And war-steeds prance, And rich plumes glance On helm and burgonet; And lances crash, And falchions flash Of knights in tourney met. Fast fades the joust!—and fierce forms frown That man the leaguered tower,— Nor quail to scan the kingly crown That leads the leaguering power. Trumpet and "rescue" ring!—and, soon, He who began the strife Is fain to crave one paltry boon:— The thrall-king begs his life! Our fathers and their throbbing toil Are hushed in pulseless death; Hushed is the dire and deadly broil— The tempest of their wrath;— Yet, of their deeds not all for spoil Is thine, O sateless Grave! Songs of their brother-hours shall foil Thy triumph o'er the brave! Their bravery take, and darkly hide Deep in thy inmost hold! Take all their mailëd pomp and pride To deck thy mansions cold! Plunderer! thou hast but purified Their memories from alloy: Faults of the dead we scorn to chide— Their virtues sing with joy. Lord of our fathers' ashes! list A carol of their mirth; Nor shake thy nieve, chill moralist! To check their sons' joy-birth:— It is the season when our sires Kept jocund holiday; And, now, around our charier fires, Old Yule shall have a lay:— A prison-bard is once more free; And, ere he yields his voice to thee, His song a merry-song shall be! ———— Sir Wilfrid de Thorold freely holds What his stout sires held before— Broad lands for plough, and fruitful folds,— Though by gold he sets no store; And he saith, from fen and woodland wolds, From marish, heath, and moor,— To feast in his hall, Both free and thrall, Shall come as they came of yore. "Let the merry bells ring out!" saith he To my lady of the Fosse; "We will keep the birth-eve joyfully Of our Lord who bore the cross!" "Let the merry bells ring loud!" he saith To saint Leonard's shaven prior; "Bid thy losel monks that patter of faith Shew works, and never tire." Saith the lord of saint Leonard's: "The brotherhood Will ring and never tire For a beck or a nod of the Baron good;"— Saith Sir Wilfrid: "They will—for hire!" Then, turning to his daughter fair, Who leaned on her father's carven chair,— He said,—and smiled On his peerless child,— His jewel whose price no clerk could tell, Though the clerk had told Sea sands for gold;— For her dear mother's sake he loved her well,— But more for the balm her tenderness Had poured on his widowed heart's distress;— More, still more, for her own heart's grace That so lovelily shone in her lovely face, And drew all eyes its love to trace— Left all tongues languageless!— He said,—and smiled On his peerless child, "Sweet bird! bid Hugh our seneschal Send to saint Leonard's, ere even-fall, A fat fed beeve, and a two-shear sheep, With a firkin of ale that a monk in his sleep May hear to hum, when it feels the broach, And wake up and swig, without reproach!— And the nuns of the Fosse—for wassail-bread— Let them have wheat, both white and red; And a runlet of mead, with a jug of the wine Which the merchant-man vowed he brought from the Rhine; And bid Hugh say that their bells must ring A peal loud and long, While we chaunt heart-song, For the birth of our heavenly king!" Now merrily ring the lady-bells Of the nunnery by the Fosse:— Say the hinds, "Their silver music swells Like the blessed angels' syllables, At his birth who bore the cross!" And solemnly swells saint Leonard's chime And the great bell loud and deep:— Say the gossips, "Let's talk of the holy time When the shepherds watched their sheep; And the Babe was born for all souls' crime In the weakness of flesh to weep."— But, anon, shrills the pipe of the merry mime, And their simple hearts upleap. "God save your souls, good Christian folk! God save your souls from sin!— Blythe Yule is come—let us blythely joke!"— Cry the mummers, ere they begin. Then, plough-boy Jack, in kirtle gay,— Though shod with clouted shoon,— Stands forth the wilful maid to play Who ever saith to her lover "Nay"— When he sues for a lover's boon. While Hob the smith with sturdy arm Circleth the feignëd maid; And, spite of Jack's assumed alarm, Busseth his lips, like a lover warm, And will not "Nay" be said. Then loffe the gossips, as if wit Were mingled with the joke:— Gentles,—they were with folly smit,— Natheless, their memories acquit Of crime—these simple folk! No harmful thoughts their revels blight,— Devoid of bitter hate and spite, They hold their merriment;— And, till the chimes tell noon at night, Their joy shall be unspent! "Come haste ye to bold Thorold's hall, And crowd his kitchen wide; For there, he saith, both free and thrall Shall sport this good Yule-tide! "Come hasten, gossips!" the mummers cry, Throughout old Torksey town; "We'll hasten!" they answer, joyfully, The gossip and the clown. Heigho! whence cometh that cheery shout? 'Tis the Yule-log troop,—a merry rout! The gray old ash that so bravely stood, The pride of the Past, in Thorney wood, They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule; And kirtled Jack is placed astride: On the log to the grunsel he shall ride! "Losels, yoke all! yoke to, and pull!" Cries Dick the wright, on long-eared steed; "He shall have thwack On lazy back, That yoketh him not, in time of need!" A long wain-whip Dick doth equip, And with beans in the bladder at end of thong, It seemeth to threaten strokes sturdy and strong;— Yet clown and maid Give eager aid,— And all, as they rattle the huge block along, Seem to court the joke Of Dick's wain-whip stroke,— Be it ever so smart, none thinks he hath wrong;— Till with mirthsome glee, The old ash tree Hath come to the threshold of Torksey hall,— Where its brave old heart A glow shall impart To the heart of each guest at the festival. And through the porch, a jocund crowd, They rush, with heart-born laughter loud; And still the merry mimesters call, With jest and gibe, "Laugh, losels all!" Then in the laden sewers troop, With plattered beef and foaming stoup:— "Make merry, neighbours!" cries good Hugh, The white-haired seneschal: "Ye trow, bold Thorold welcomes you— Make merry, my masters, all!" They pile the Yule-log on the hearth,— Soak toasted crabs in ale; And while they sip, their homely mirth Is joyous as if all the earth For man were void of bale! And why should fears for future years Mix jolly ale with thoughts of tears When in the horn 'tis poured?