O plethora of beef and bliss! Monkish feaster, sly of kiss! Southern soul in body Dutch! Glorious time of great Too-Much! Too much heat and too much noise, Too much babblement of boys; Too much eating, too much drinking, Too much ev'rything but thinking; Solely bent to laugh and stuff, And trample upon base Enough. Oh, right is thy instructive praise Of the wealth of Nature's ways! Right thy most unthrifty glee, And pious thy mince-piety! For, behold! great Nature's self Builds her no abstemious shelf, But provides (her love is such For all) her own great, good Too-Much,-- Too much grass, and too much tree, Too much air, and land, and sea, Too much seed of fruit and flower, And fish, an unimagin'd dower! (In whose single roe shall be Life enough to stock the sea,-- Endless ichthyophagy!) Ev'ry instant through the day Worlds of life are thrown away; Worlds of life, and worlds of pleasure, Not for lavishment of treasure, But because she's so immensely Rich, and loves us so intensely. She would have us, once for all, Wake at her benignant call, And all grow wise, and all lay down Strife, and jealousy, and frown, And, like the sons of one great mother, Share, and be blest, with one another.
Thrice holy ring, afar and wide, The merry bells this Christmas-tide; Afar and wide, through hushed snow, From ivied minster-portico, Sweet anthems swell to tell the tale Of that young babe the shepherds hail Sitting amid their nibbling flocks What time the Hallelujah shocks The drowsy earth, and Cherubim Break through the heaven with harp and hymn.
Belated birds sing tingling notes To warm apace their chilly throats, Or they, mayhap, have caught the story And pipe their part from branches hoary; While up aloft, his tempered beams The sun has poured in gentle streams, Sending o'er snowy hill and dell A pleasance to greet the Christmas bell! Now every yeoman starts abroad For holly green and the ivy-tod; Good folk to kirk are soon atrip Mellow with cheer and good-fellowship, And cosey chimneys, here and there Puff forth the sweets o' Christmas fare.
Ho! rosy wenches and merry men From over the hill and field and fen, Great store is here, the drifts between Of myrtle red-berried, and mistletoe green! Ho, Phyllis and Kate and bonny Nell Come hither, and buffet the goodmen well, An they gather not for hall and hearth, Fair bays to grace the evening mirth. Aye, laugh ye well! and echoed wide Your voices sing through the Christmas-tide, And wintry winds emblend their tones At the minster-eaves with the organ groans: The carols meet with laughter sweet In a gay embrace mid the drifting sleet.