FullReads

(FROM THE FRENCH OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.)

Hail, good Masters, let us bide,
Hither come from travel wide,
This Christmas-tide.
Hearken, give us bed and cheer,
We are weary, life is dear
This day o’ the year!
God send ye joy and peace on earth,
Who broach good cheer for Christe’s birth.

Masters, an ye make no feast:
Spiced ale and meat of beast,
Nor laugh the least:
If ye fill not pantries high
With bread, and fish, and mammoth pie,
And sweets, pardie!–
God ordains no peace on earth
To ye who fast at Christe’s birth.

Masters, it is writ of old
Who fill the fire for Christmas cold
And wassail hold,
Shall have of food a double store
And ruddy-blazing ingle roar
Forevermore.
God sends the peace of heaven and earth
To men who carol Christe’s birth.

O Masters! let nor hate nor spite
Mar the tongue of any wight
‘Twixt night and night.
Botun, batun–belabor well
Churls who sleep through matin bell
And no soothe tell.
God will forfeit peace on earth
If men fall out at Christe’s birth.

Christmas tipples every wine,
English, French, and Gascon fine
And Angevine;
Clinks with neighbor and with guest,
Empties casks with gibe and jest–
The year’s for rest!
God sends to men the joy of earth
Who broach good cheer for Christe’s birth.

But hearken, Masters, ere ye drink
While yet the bubbles boil and wink
At the brink;
Ere ye lift the pot aloft,
Merrily wave it, laughing oft,
With hood well doft.
And if I cry ye, sad, “Wesseyl!”
Woe’s him who answers not “Drinchayl!”

Translated by H. S. M.