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 feast-- But not in pomp or pride; He smileth on the humblest guest So gladsomely--all feel that rest Of heart which doth abide Where deeds of generousness attest The welcome by the tongue professed, Is not within belied.
And the Baron's beauteous child is there, In her maiden peerlessness,-- Her eyes diffusing heart-light rare, And smiles so sweetly debonair, That all her presence bless.--
But wherefore paleth, soon, her cheek? And why, with trembling, doth she seek To shun her father's gaze? And who is he for whom the crowd Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud With gleeful voices raise?
"Right welcome!" though the revellers shout, They hail the minstrel "Stranger!" And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt, And his daughter's look thrills "danger!"
Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold, And his speech is firm and free; He saith he will carol a legend old, Of a Norman lord of Torksey told: He learnt it o'er the sea; And he will not sing for the Baron's gold, But for love of minstrelsy.
"Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith, "And tell thy minstrel tale: It is too late to harbour wrath For the thieves in helm and mail:
"Our fathers' home again is ours!-- Though Thorold is Saxon still, To a song of thy foreign troubadours He can list with right good will!"
A shout of glee rings to the roof, And the revellers form a ring; Then silent wait to mark what proof Of skill with voice and string The youthful stranger will afford.
Full soon he tunes each quivering chord, And, with preamble wildly sweet He doth the wondering listeners greet;-- Then strikes into a changeful chaunt That fits his fanciful romaunt.