Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Theodore Watts-Dunton. 18361914807. Wassail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern
CHRISTMAS knows a merry, merry place, | ||
Where he goes with fondest face, | ||
Brightest eye, brightest hair: | ||
Tell the Mermaid where is that one place, | ||
Where? | 5 | |
Raleigh. | ‘Tis by Devon’s glorious halls, | |
Whence, dear Ben, I come again: | ||
Bright of golden roofs and walls— | ||
El Dorado’s rare domain— | ||
Seem those halls when sunlight launches | 10 | |
Shafts of gold thro’ leafless branches, | ||
Where the winter’s feathery mantle blanches | ||
Field and farm and lane. | ||
CHORUS. | Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. | |
Drayton. | ‘Tis where Avon’s wood-sprites weave | 15 |
Through the boughs a lace of rime, | ||
While the bells of Christmas Eve | ||
Fling for Will the Stratford-chime | ||
O’er the river-flags emboss’d | ||
Rich with flowery runes of frost— | 20 | |
O’er the meads where snowy tufts are toss’d— | ||
Strains of olden time. | ||
CHORUS. | Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. | |
Shakespeare’s Friend. | ‘Tis, methinks, on any ground | |
Where our Shakespeare’s feet are set. | 25 | |
There smiles Christmas, holly-crown’d | ||
With his blithest coronet: | ||
Friendship’s face he loveth well: | ||
‘Tis a countenance whose spell | ||
Sheds a balm o’er every mead and dell | 30 | |
Where we used to fret. | ||
CHORUS. | Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. | |
Heywood. | More than all the pictures, Ben, | |
Winter weaves by wood or stream, | ||
Christmas loves our London, when | 35 | |
Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam— | ||
Clouds like these, that, curling, take | ||
Forms of faces gone, and wake | ||
Many a lay from lips we loved, and make | ||
London like a dream. | 40 | |
CHORUS. | Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. | |
Ben Jonson. | Love’s old songs shall never die, | |
Yet the new shall suffer proof: | ||
Love’s old drink of Yule brew I | ||
Wassail for new love’s behoof. | 45 | |
Drink the drink I brew, and sing | ||
Till the berried branches swing, | ||
Till our song make all the Mermaid ring— | ||
Yea, from rush to roof. | ||
FINALE. | Christmas loves this merry, merry place; | 50 |
Christmas saith with fondest face, | ||
Brightest eye, brightest hair: | ||
‘Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace: | ||
Rare!’ |