Words: Oliver Wendell Holmes. 1809–1894
Vocal Recording: MP3 / OGG

Source: Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse.  1912.
Located at Bartleby.com: On Lending a Punch-Bowl,
http://www.bartleby.com/102/98.html
Accessed November 16, 2006

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, — it tells of good old times,    
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes;    
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,    
That 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 caudle 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 schnaps.

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 bawble 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?"