But since Delight can't tempt the wight, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, Charles Fenno Hoffman [1806-1884] THE MAHOGANY TREE CHRISTMAS is here: Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Sang, in its bloom; Night-birds are we: Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Evenings we knew, Faces we miss, Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, We sing round the tree. Care, like a dun, Drink, every one; Drain we the cup.- In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Come with the dawn,, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night Round the old tree. William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863] TODLIN' HAME WHEN I ha'e a saxpence under my thoom, But Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, Couldna' my love come todlin' hame? Fair fa' the gudewife, and send her gude sale; Todlin' hame, todlin' hame, As round as a neep come todlin' hame. My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, And aye when we wakened, we drank them dry. Todlin' butt, and todlin' ben, Sae round as my love comes todlin' hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlin' dow, Ye're aye gude-humored when weetin' your mou'! That 'tis a blithe nicht to the bairns and me, When, todlin' hame, todlin' hame, When, round as a neep, ye come todlin' hame. Unknown THE CRUISKEEN LAWN LET the farmer praise his grounds, Let the huntsman praise his hounds, The shepherd his dew-scented lawn; But I, more blest than they, Spend each happy night and day With my charming little cruiskeen lawn, lawn, lawn, My charming little cruiskeen lawn. Gra machree ma cruiskeen, Slainté geal mavourneen, 's gra machree a cooleen bawn. Gra machree ma cruiskeen, Slainte geal mavourneen, Gra machree a cooleen bawn, bawn, bawn, 's gra machree a cooleen bawn. Immortal and divine, Great Bacchus, god of wine, Create me by adoption your son; In hope that you'll comply, My glass shall ne'er run dry, Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn. And when grim death appears, In a few but pleasant years, To tell me that my glass has run; I'll say, Begone, you knave, For bold Bacchus gave me leave To take another cruiskeen lawn. Then fill your glasses high, Let's not part with lips a-dry, Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn; And since we can't remain, May we shortly meet again, To fill another cruiskeen lawn. Unknown GIVE ME THE OLD OLD wine to drink! Ay, give the slippery juice That drippeth from the grape thrown loose Within the tun; Plucked from beneath the cliff Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, And ripened 'neath the blink Of India's sun! Peat whiskey hot, Tempered with well-boiled water! These make the long night shorter, Forgetting not Good stout old English porter. Old wood to burn! Ay, bring the hill-side beech From where the owlets meet and screech, And ravens croak; The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; The knotted oak, A fagot too, perhap, Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, While the oozing sap Shall make sweet music to our thinking. Old books to read! Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, The same my sire scanned before, The well-earned meed Of Oxford's domes: Old Homer blind, Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lic; Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay! And Gervase Markham's venerie Nor leave behind The Holye Book by which we live and die." Old friends to talk! Ay, bring those chosen few, The wise, the courtly, and the truc, So rarely found; Him for my wine, him for my stud, Him for my easel, distich, bud In mountain-walk! Bring Walter good, With soulful Fred, and learned Will, And thee, my alter ego (dearer still For every mood). |