Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Oliver WendellHolmes249 On Lending a Punch-Bowl
T
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes;
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,
Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.
’T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;
And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,
He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,
’T was filled caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.
Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,
He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.
With those that in the Mayflower came,—a hundred souls and more,—
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new adobes,—
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred load.
When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeers—the men that fought and prayed—
All drank as ’t were their mother’s milk, and not a man afraid.
He heard the Pequot’s ringing whoop, the soldier’s wild halloo;
And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin:
“Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!”
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub’s nose,
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,—
’T was mingled by a mother’s hand to cheer her parting boy.
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;
And if—God bless me!—you were hurt, ’t would keep away the chill.”
So John did drink,—and well he wrought that night at Bunker’s Hill!
I tell you, ’t was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here:
’T is but the fool that loves excess; has thou a drunken soul?
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,—my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate’er the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin
That dooms one to those dreadful words,—“My dear, where have you been?”