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,âÂso runs the ancient tale;
âT 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.
âT 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,
âT 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 whatâs next: it left the Dutchmanâs shore
With those that in the Mayflower came,âÂa hundred souls and more,âÂ
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,âÂ
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.
âT was on a dreary winterâs 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,âÂthe man that never feared,âÂ
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeersâÂthe men that fought and prayedâÂ
All drank as ât were their motherâs milk, and not a man afraid.
That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,
He heard the Pequotâs ringing whoop, the soldierâs 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 âHollands gin!â
A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherubâs nose,
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, =âÂ
âT was mingled by a motherâs hand to cheer her parting boy.
Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,âÂpoor child, youâll never bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if -âÂ
God bless me! -â you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill.
So John did drink,âÂand well he wrought that night at Bunkerâs Hill!
I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;
I tell you, ât was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.
âT 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,âÂits pressed yet fragrant flowers,âÂ
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,âÂmy 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, whateâer the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin
That dooms one to those dreadful words,âÂâMy dear, where have you been?â