Heap On More Wood! - The Wind Is Chill
Notes On The Boar's Head Carols
From The Project Gutenberg EBook of
Marmion, by Sir Walter Scott, 1808
(#19 in our series by Sir Walter Scott)
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH.
TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ.
Heap on more wood!-the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem’d the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer: 5
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall, 10
Where shields and axes deck’d the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dress’d steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw’d rib, and marrow-bone, 15
Or listen’d all, in grim delight,
While scalds yell’d out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly-loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile, 20
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin’s hall.
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll’d, 25
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;
On Christmas eve the bells were rung; 30
On Christmas eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress’d with holly green; 35
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open’d wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside, 40
And Ceremony doff’d his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of ‘post and pair.’ 45
All hail’d, with uncontroll’d delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50
Went roaring up the chimney wide:
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord. 55
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell, 60
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls. 65
There the huge sirloin reek’d; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie:
Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in, 70
And carols roar’d with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery; 75
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when 80
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
‘Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale;
‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year. 85
Still linger, in our northern clime,
Some remnants of the good old time;
And still, within our valleys here,
We hold the kindred title dear,
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch’d claim 90
To Southron ear sounds empty name;
For course of blood, our proverbs deem,
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.
And thus, my Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old, 95
With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air-
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine,
And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 100
Small thought was his, in after time
E’er to be hitch’d into a rhyme.
The simple sire could only boast,
That he was loyal to his cost;
The banish’d race of kings revered, 105
And lost his land,-but kept his beard.
In these dear halls, where welcome kind
Is with fair liberty combined;
Where cordial friendship gives the hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand 110
Of the fair dame that rules the land.
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun’s halls are fair e’en now, 115
When not a leaf is on the bough.
Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loth to leave the sweet domain,
And holds his mirror to her face,
And clips her with a close embrace:- 120
Gladly as he, we seek the dome,
And as reluctant turn us home.
How just that, at this time of glee,
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee!
For many a merry hour we’ve known, 125
And heard the chimes of midnight’s tone.
Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease,
And leave these classic tomes in peace!
Of Roman and of Grecian lore,
Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 130
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say,
‘Were pretty fellows in their day;’
But time and tide o’er all prevail-
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale-
Of wonder and of war-‘Profane! 135
What! leave the lofty Latian strain,
Her stately prose, her verse’s charms,
To hear the clash of rusty arms:
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost,
To jostle conjurer and ghost, 140
Goblin and witch!’-Nay, Heber dear,
Before you touch my charter, hear;
Though Leyden aids, alas! no more,
My cause with many-languaged lore,
This may I say:-in realms of death 145
Ulysses meets Alcides’ wraith;
Aeneas, upon Thracia’s shore,
The ghost of murder’d Polydore;
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, locutus Bos. 150
As grave and duly speaks that ox,
As if he told the price of stocks;
Or held, in Rome republican,
The place of Common-councilman.
All nations have their omens drear, 155
Their legends wild of woe and fear.
To Cambria look-the peasant see,
Bethink him of Glendowerdy,
And shun ‘the Spirit’s Blasted Tree.’
The Highlander, whose red claymore 160
The battle turn’d on Maida’s shore,
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,
If ask’d to tell a fairy tale:
He fears the vengeful Elfin King,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring: 165
Invisible to human ken,
He walks among the sons of men.
Did’st e’er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchemont,
Which, like an eagle’s nest in air, 170
Hang o’er the stream and hamlet fair?
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,
Amass’d through rapine and through wrong
By the last Lord of Franchemont. 175
The iron chest is bolted hard,
A Huntsman sits, its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: 180
An ‘twere not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look,
As bugle e’er in brake did sound,
Or ever hollow’d to a hound. 185
To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged Necromantic Priest;
It is an hundred years at least,
Since ‘twixt them first the strife begun, 190
And neither yet has lost nor won.
And oft the Conjurer’s words will make
The stubborn Demon groan and quake;
And oft the bands of iron break,
Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 195
Fast as ‘tis open’d, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the Adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clench’d the spell, 200
When Franch’mont lock’d the treasure cell.
An hundred years are pass’d and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
Such general superstition may
Excuse for old Pitscottie say; 205
Whose gossip history has given
My song the messenger from Heaven,
That warn’d, in Lithgow, Scotland’s King,
Nor less the infernal summoning;
May pass the Monk of Durham’s tale, 210
Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail;
May pardon plead for Fordun grave,
Who told of Gifford’s Goblin-Cave.
But why such instances to you,
Who, in an instant, can renew 215
Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest
Like treasures in the Franch’mont chest,
While gripple owners still refuse 220
To others what they cannot use;
Give them the priest’s whole century,
They shall not spell you letters three;
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfer’d gem. 225
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;
Yet who, of all who thus employ them,
Can like the owner’s self enjoy them?- 230
But, hark! I hear the distant drum!
The day of Flodden Field is come.-
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health,
And store of literary wealth.