saith
To saint Leonard's shaven prior;[4]
"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,[5]
They have levelled for honour of welcome Yule;
And kirtled Jack is placed astride:
On the log to the grunsel[6] 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?
And why should ghost of sorrow fright
The bold heart of an English wight
When beef is on the board?

De Thorold's guests are wiser than
The men of mopish lore;
For round they push the smiling can,
And slice the plattered store.

And round they thrust the ponderous cheese,
And the loaves of wheat and rye:
None stinteth him for lack of ease—
For each a stintless welcome sees,
In the Baron's blythesome eye.

The Baron joineth the joyous