CHRISTMAS AND NEW-YEAR SONGS

HE frost of the moon fell over my floor And six green singers stood at my door. “What do ye here that music make?” “Let us come in for Christ’s sweet Sake.” “Long have ye journeyed in coming here?” “Our Pilgrimage was the length of the year.” “Where do ye make for?” I asked of them. “Our Shrine is a Stable in Bethlehem.” “What will ye do as ye go along?” “Sing to the world an evergreen song.” “What will ye sing for the listening earth?” “One will sing of a brave-souled Mirth, “One of the Holiest Mystery, The Glory of glories shall one song be, “One of the Memory of things, One of the Child’s imaginings, “One of our songs is the fadeless Faith, And all are the Life more mighty than death.” “Ere ye be gone that music make, Give me an alms for Christ’s sweet Sake.” “Six green branches we leave with you; See they be scattered your house-place through. “The staunch blithe Holly your board shall grace, Mistletoe bless your chimney-place, “Laurel to crown your lighted hall, Over your bed let the Yew-bough fall, “Close by the cradle the Christmas Fir, For elfin dreams in its branches stir, “Last and loveliest, high and low, From ceil to floor let the Ivy go.” From each glad guest I received my gift And then the latch of my door did lift— “Green singers, God prosper the song ye make As ye sing to the world for Christ’s sweet Sake.”

WO strangers met on a mountain-side In a far country ... The moon was young, the year was old, The airs of the night were bitter-cold, And their heavy cloaks their dress did hide. One stranger did the other stay In that far country: “What brings you into the icy dark With lifted eyes that only mark The lights of heaven, less light than day?” The second said the first unto In the far country: “Many the lights of heaven are, But I watch for the birth of one more Star Not yet arisen. And what do you?” The first man to the other spoke In the far country: “Even as you I wait the birth Of one new Light above the earth. What garb do you wear beneath your cloak?” The second dropped his outer dress In that far country: He wore a sheep-skin frayed and thin Whose holes laid bare the shivering skin, And the wind made mock of his nakedness. The other did his robe unfold In that far country, And plain to see in the starlight dim Were the furs and purple that covered him, They were so heavy and rich with gold. The hand of each unto each did spring In that far country. “Brother, why dared ye the night?” “Because He, even as I, a Shepherd was.” “I came, because He was a King.” Handfast they watched the Birth on high In the far country. Shepherd and King forgotten be, But not that all men’s Brother was He Who for all men did live and die In a far country.

HENCE got ye your soft, soft eyes of the mother, O soft-eyed cow? We saw the Mother of mothers bring forth, and that was how. We sheltered her that was shelterless for a little while, We watched the milking Babe at her breast, and we saw her smile. Even as we she lay upon straw, and even as we Took her sleep in the dark of the manger unfretfully, And when the dawn of the strange new Star discovered her thus, The ray that was destined for her and for Him fell also on us; The light passed into her eyes and ours, and full in its flood We were first to behold the first mothering look of the Mother of God.

HEN there dawns a certain Star Comes a Stranger into the city; The feet of prayer his dear feet are, His hands they are the hands of pity. Every houseplace rich and poor Shall show for welcome a sprig of green, And every heart shall open its door To let the Stranger enter in. I will set my door ajar That he may enter if he please; The eyes of love his dear eyes are, His brow it is the brow of peace. Through the heart of every child And man and woman in the city He shall pass, and they be filled With love and peace and prayer and pity.

ERE’S greeting for the master, And for the mistress greeting, And greeting for each gallant lad And every pretty sweeting, And greeting for the little children Dancing round our meeting. We be your servants all, We be merry mummers; We know jolly winter’s face Though we ne’er saw summer’s; We come in wi’ the end o’ the year, For we be Christmas-comers. This here do be Saint George, This the heathen Paynim, Dragon he will drink your healths When Saint George has slain him, This do be a beautiful maid And a trouble ’twere to train him! There’s our mumming ended And nothing to distress ye— Surely, we be little loth Since so kindly press ye. Here’s God bless ye, master, mistress, All the house, God bless ye!

HILD, when on this night you lie Softly, undisturbedly, On as white a bed of down As any child’s in London Town, By a fire that all the night Keeps your chamber warm and light: Dream, if dreams are yet your law, Your bed of down a bed of straw, Only warmed and lighted by One star in the open sky. Sweet you’ll sleep then, for we know Once a Child slept sweetly so.

HE moon upon her watch-tower With her golden eye Guarded the quarters East and West the sky. Just as midnight Was stepping past One drew his first breath, One drew his last. The moon upon her watch-tower Rang a soundless bell— It might have been for welcome, It might have been farewell.

SEE the twelve fair months go by Bearing a coffin shoulder-high. What, laughing? Pretty pall-bearers, Pitiless of the buried years, Have ye never a tear to shed Nor sigh to drop for the newly-dead, Nor marble grief to mark his grave?— No, none of these; but see, we have Green seed to mingle with his earth.— What, is not this a burying?—— Nay, a birth.

HROUGH the grey and heavy air, Through the January rain, When old England nipped and bare Shudders with the load of pain Wept upon her by the eyes Of sunless, sun-remembering skies: When the soul of man is fain Suddenly abroad to fare, Questing, questing everywhere The soul of beauty to regain, Dreaming like a boy to snare The great free bird no lure can chain, Following in a dull despair That cannot pierce their brief disguise Random flights of pallid lies Never fledged in Paradise:— Comes the sound of gathering cries Calling down the centuries Urgently with might and main, “Colin Clout, O Colin Clout! Colin, Colin, Colin Clout! England needs you, Colin Clout! Colin Clout, come home again!” Colin, can you never hear? Colin, will you never rise From the narrow plot of rest That sang for joy of such a guest To fill its dust with melodies, And to make it year by year Such a place of golden cheer, Of flowering deed and jolly jest, Of pastoral prettiness and the clear Summons to be sailing West Over oceans fabulous Leading on to stranger shores And distant ports adventurous— That with its music in your ear, Drawn from your own imagined stores, You care to give no heed to us Whose laughter has been soured by doubt, Whose hearts are hedged with many a fear, Who learn to hold our lives so dear That all their wealth has trickled out, Who joy and beauty hand in hand Have driven homeless from the land And put the old ideals to rout:— Yet even because, returning here, You needs must find your England thus, Let not her children call in vain, “Colin Clout, O Colin Clout! Colin Clout, come home again!” Hark! I hear a shepherd’s pipe With three notes of music wipe Discord from this troubled star; I hear tumultuous gladness shake The marrows of the land awake, Wherein old slumbering visions are; I hear the stirrings of a day When all the earth will smell of may, When eager men will fling aside Their garments of enlightened pride Where time the moth has had his way, And don again the homespun dress Of England’s ancient simpleness— O piping shepherd-reed at play, Blown with a poet’s golden breath, How suddenly a heart as gay, As innocent, as full of faith As children’s hearts are, ’gins to beat In the world’s bosom at my feet! How all my sisters’ eyes grow strong, And all my brothers’ eyes grow sweet, And we who boast so loud to-day Above our self-created strife That we have lost our fear of death Lose suddenly our fear of life, And go with gladness down the way To meet whatever is to meet. Then, Colin! then about your knees We’ll lie and list such fantasies As keep the spirit bright and young And guard the edge of youth as keen As a new-tempered virgin sword; We will re-learn the magic tongue, And where the meadow-rings are green Re-seek Titania and her lord, For you will bring a flitting home Of vanished Folk to English loam; About our business we will go With holiday-hearts whose dancing beat Is measured to your piping sweet, And on your music great will grow In the redress of antique wrongs; And from the richest of your songs, O dreamer-lover, shepherd-knight, Spell out a long-forgotten name, Re-kindling the expiring glow Of Chivalry’s high beacon-light, Till by its heaven-pointing flame Our generations understand Their England is too fair a land To suffer ugliness and blight And the dishonourable bane Of serfdom’s bowed and broken knee, Too fine a trading mart to be Where one may cause the many pain, And foul self-interest men empowers To turn to weeds what should be flowers. For evil must be still to cope When Colin Clout comes home again, Because a world devoid of pain Would be a world made bare of hope, And both must act together till Slipt from its spiritual trance This globe is frozen to good and ill; But ere the life here bound by chance Flows to its last significance, Colin! bring home the dream we lost Because we grew too old for dreams, And bring again the golden barque With which in our high-hearted youth We sailed wild seas and perilous streams; And find again a road we crossed In olden time and failed to mark; And give us love of beauty back, And set us on the grassy track Of many an ancient-simple truth; Re-teach our voices how to sing Melodiously; and bring, O bring The rustless lance of honour in For men to strive again to win, As in the days when knightlihood For life’s most high expression stood, And man reached forth to touch that goal Not with his hands but with his soul. Ah, Colin! ’tis a twice-told tale How that the woods were heard to wail, How birds with silence did complain, And fields with faded flowers did mourn, And flocks from feeding did refrain, And rivers wept for your return. Singer of England’s merriest hour, Return! return and make her flower, Charming your pipe unto your peers As once you did in other years; For we who wait on you, know this, Whatever tune your reed shall play Will hearken with as gladdened ears As Cuddy and as Thestylis, As Hobbinol and Lucida And all the simple shepherd-train, What time they gathered and ran, a gay Rejoicing happy-hearted rout, Across the sweetening meadow-hay Each calling other: “Come about! The time of waiting is run out, And Colin Clout, O, Colin Clout, Colin Clout’s come home again!”