Christmas Is Come
Words: Albert Smith
Source: Henry Vizetelly, Christmas With The Poets (London: David Bogue, 1851).
The old north breeze through the skeleton trees
Is chanting the year out drearily;
But loud let it blow, for at home we know
That the dry logs crackle cheerily;
And the frozen ground is in fetters bound;
But pile up the wood, we can burn it;
For Christmas is come, and in every home
To summer our hearts can turn it.
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.
And far and near, o'er landscape drear,
From casements brightly streaming,
With cheerful glow on the fallen snow
The ruddy light is gleaming;
The wind may shout as it like without,
It may bluster, but never can harm us;
For a merrier din shall resound within,
And our Christmas feelings warm us.
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.
The flowers are torpid in their beds,
Till spring's first sunbeam sleeping;
Not e'en the snowdrops' pointed heads
Above the earth are peeping;
But groves remain on each frosted pane
Of feathery trees and bowers;
And fairer far we'll maintain they are
Than summer's gaudiest flowers.
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.
Let us drink to those eyes we most dearly prize,
We can show how we love them after;
The fire blaze cleaves to the bright holly leaves,
And the mistletoe hangs from the rafter;
We care not for fruit, whilst we here can see
Their scarlet and pearly berries;
For the girls' soft cheeks shall our peaches be,
And their pouting lips our cherries.
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, abroad and at home;
Wassail! wassail!
Here's happiness to all, for Christmas is come.
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