THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times; 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.
A Spanish galleon brought the bar,— so runs the ancient tale; ‘ 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.
‘ T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, 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 with candle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.
But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, 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.
And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came,— a hundred souls and more,— Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,— To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.
‘ T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim, 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 poured the fiery Hollands in,— the man that never feared,— 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.
That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, 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 hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, 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.
Drink, John, she said,‘ t will do you good,— poor child, you'll never bear 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, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you,‘ t was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. ‘ T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!
I love the memory of the past,— its pressed yet fragrant flowers,— 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.
Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; 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?”
Cookies on Poetry Cove