Twas the Night before Christmas


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement Clarke Moore

The Huron Carol

Have courage, you who are humans; Jesus, he is born
Behold, the spirit who had us as prisoners has fled
Do not listen to it, as it corrupts the spirits of our minds
Jesus, he is born
They are spirits, sky people, coming with a message for us
They are coming to say, "Rejoice"
Marie, she has just given birth. Rejoice"
Jesus, he is born

Three have left for such, those who are elders
Tichion, a star that has just appeared on the horizon leads them there
 He will seize the path, he who leads them there
 Jesus, he is born
As they arrived there, where he was born, Jesus
the star was at the point of stopping, not far past it
Having found someone for them, he says, "Come here!"
Jesus, he is born
Behold, they have arrived there and have seen Jesus,
They praised (made a name) many times, saying "Hurrah, he is good in nature"
They greeted him with reverence (greased his scalp many times), saying 'Hurray'
Jesus, he is born
"We will give to him praise for his name,
Let us show reverence for him as he comes to be compassionate to us.
It is providential that you love us and wish, 'I should adopt them.'"
Jesus, he is born.


In The Huron
Es-ten-nia-lon de tson-ou-e
Jesous a-ha-ton-hia,
On-naou-a-te-ou-a d'o-ki
N'on-ouan-da-skoua-en-tak;
En-non-chien skou-a-tri-ho-tat,
N'on-ou-an-di-lon-ra-cha-tha,
Jesous a-ha-ton-hia,
Jesous a-ha-ton-hi-a  
St. Jean de Brebeuf

 Oh Come, All Ye Faithful

O come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem;
Come and behold him,

Born the King of angels;
O come, let us adore him,
O come, let us adore him,
O Come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord.

Sing, choirs of angels,
Sing in exultation,
Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above;
Glory to God
In the highest;

See how the shepherds,
Summoned to his cradle,
Leaving their flocks, draw nigh to gaze;
We too will thither
Bend our joyful footsteps;

Child, for us sinners
Poor and in the manger,
We would embrace thee, with love and awe;
Who would not live thee,
Loving us so dearly?

Yea, Lord, we greet thee,
Born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be glory given;
Word of the Father,
Now in flesh appearing;

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

 Note:

A very Merry Christmas to all of you out there, even the Sassenach amoung you. 

May God's blessing follow you and yours.

Now mind - Hogmanay is just a week away.

The Honourable Dugual Blackthorn-Badger;
The Imperious Teddybear Zouaves, 
The Queen's Own Pig Irregulars, 
The Fearsome First Fencibles, 
The First Dragon Dragoon Guards,
The Minders, 
The Watchers, 
The Rinosasuaris Resplendent Redoubatables 

and of course all the Taylor's including Miss Poppy The Dog.

Dog’s “Goodbye” Letter To His Human

“Yesterday was a weird day. I couldn’t get myself out of bed. The guy I live with lifted me up. I tried to get my legs under me, but they wouldn’t cooperate. He said, “Don’t worry, I gotcha buddy,” carried me downstairs, and out the front door. That was so nice of him. I needed to pee so badly, I just had to go right there where he put me down. Normally I wouldn’t, but we both decided to make an exception to the rule.

“I started walking down the parking lot toward that place where all the dogs like me go to poop. I felt my paws dragging on the ground. “How strange,” I thought. Then suddenly, I just had to go, really badly. In the middle of the parking lot. Normally, I wouldn’t do that. It’s against the rules.”

“My person cleaned up the mess. He’s good at that. I felt embarrassed, looked at him, and he said, “Want to keep walking, buddy?” I did, but it was surprisingly tough. By the time we reached the end of the parking lot, my head was spinning. I tried to climb the little hill, and nearly fell over. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.

“He reached down again, and ran his hands over me. That felt good. He picked me up, and carried me home. I was still confused, and my head was light, but I was glad not to have to walk all the way back. It suddenly seemed like an impossible distance.”

“I was so glad to lay down on my bed. My person petted me, saying, “I gotcha covered, buddy. I gotcha.” I love the way that makes me feel. I know he does. He makes everything better.

He felt my paws, and pulled up my lip. He said, “Oh buddy, are you cold?” I was. My face was cold, my paws were cold. He texted a few people, and came back to pet me.
“A few minutes later, another person arrived. He’s one of my favorites, and his name is Jay. He petted me, and said to my person, “Do you want to get a blanket?” They put a blanket over me, and wow… that felt good. I relaxed, and they both petted me, but they both started to choke back tears.”

“I never want them to cry, it breaks my heart. It’s my job to make them feel better, and I was just a little tired, and cold. I drifted in and out of sleep, and they were always there, making sure I was okay, and chatting with each other.

“Throughout the day, my person made some phone calls, and spent a lot of time with me. I heard him say, “9 am tomorrow… ok… yes… I’ll tell you if anything changes. Thank you Dr. MacDonald.” He called someone else, and said, “I’m sorry, I have to cancel tonight.” Then as I was drifting off to sleep, I think I heard him cry a little again.”

“In the evening, more of my favorite people came by. They were all so loving. I licked their tears away when they would get close enough to my face. They whispered sweet things in my ear, and told me I was a good boy.

“Later in the evening, I felt well enough to stand up and walk to the door to see who was coming in. It was more exhausting than I’d remembered it being, but I loved seeing them all. I heard my person say something like, “That’s the first time he’s gotten up under his own power today.” Everyone seemed glad that I was out of bed. I was too, but wow… after the excitement wore off, it was so exhausting to move around.”

“After the last visitor left, my person took me outside to do what he called, “my business.” We went back inside and when we reached the bottom of the stairs, they looked twice as steep and ten times as long as I remembered them being. I looked at my person, and he looked at me. He said, “Don’t worry, I gotcha buddy,” and carried me up.

“Then it got even better! Instead of sleeping in my bed, he called me up to sleep on *his* bed. Let me repeat: *I got to sleep in the bed with my person!* We normally have our own beds, but last night we snuggled, and it felt so good to be that close to him. I thought, “This is where I belong. I will never leave his side.” I didn’t feel very well though, and it was hard to breathe sometimes.”

“It seems like it started a few months ago. We were playing fetch and I just blacked out. I don’t know what happened, but I think I stopped breathing. I could hear my person calling my name. I couldn’t move a muscle. He lifted my head, and looked into my eyes. I could see him right there, but couldn’t lick his face. He said, “Benny, are you in there?” I couldn’t respond. He looked at me, and said, “Don’t worry buddy, I gotcha. I gotcha covered.” I started to spin into darkness, but then my lungs took in a deep breath, and I could see again.

“We went to see some doctors, and since then I’ve heard a lot of words like, “cardiomyopathy,” “cancer,” and, “kidney failure.” All i know is that sometimes I feel okay, and sometimes… you know… I just don’t. My person gives me pills.”

“This morning, I heard my person get up and take a shower. He came back in the room, and smelled so nice. He helped me get up, but this time, I could do it on my own. We got to the top of the stairs, and wow… they looked long and steep again. He said, “I gotcha buddy,” and carried me down. I did my business, and we came back inside. He opened a can, a really, really delicious can of wet dog food. Oh man… I love that stuff!

“Jay showed up again. What a nice surprise! He and my person seemed concerned, but everyone was petting me. It seemed a little like a play, where all the actors were sad, but pretending to be happy. Pretty soon after that, another person showed up. She was wearing doctor pants, and I leaned on her.”

“I heard them talk. Everyone looked at my gums, and felt my paws. I heard the doctor pants lady say, “It’s your decision, but he’s definitely in that window. I don’t want to push you, but looking at his lack of color, I am honestly shocked he’s even standing up. In addition to the paws and jowls, look here…” she pointed at my face, “This should be pink. It’s almost white, and verging toward yellow.”

“My person and Jay went inside to talk about something. When they came back out, I heard my person say, “I agree. I don’t want to wait till he’s in absolute agony.” So we went inside. Truth be told, I was feeling pretty badly, even though I was up and walking. It seemed like my whole head was cold, my paws were freezing, and my back legs weren’t working right.”

“The doctor pants lady said, “I’ll just put this into his muscle. It’s a sedative. Then I’ll come back over here, and you can just love on him till he’s asleep.” My person kissed my face, and looked in my eyes. He was trying not to cry. Doctor pants lady gave me a shot of something in the leg. I just looked at my person. He is so awesome. I will always be right by his side.

“He and Jay petted me, and said the nicest things – what a good dog I am, what a good job I’ve done, how thankful they are to have me in their lives. After a while, my mind started buzzing. FOCUS! I looked back at my person. I love him so much.”

“I drifted again. FOCUS! I can see my person. I love him so much. I will always be right by his side. He knows that. Am I sleepy? FOCUS! I’ll always look at him with my whole heart…

Doctor pants lady said, “He must have an incredible will to stay with you. He is really powering through. That’s impressive.” My person choked back tears and said, “I know. This guy lives for me. He is the most devoted soul I’ve ever met…” We put our heads together, and closed our eyes. I felt good. I can’t really describe it. We looked at each other again. I just felt like riding that buzz, but maybe lying down was better. My person helped me down. Man, that felt gooooooood.

“I felt him and Jay petting me, and heard them talking to me. They love me so much. How lucky am I? Then I felt thousands of hands petting me. Everyone I’d ever known and loved was there, petting me, scratching my ears, and that spot under my collar that makes my leg move. Everyone should try this. It’s just amazing!”

“Then I felt the doctor pants lady touch my leg. Did I tell you that my person had to have both of my knees repaired? They’re titanium, and have served me well, but you know… I’ve been feeling a little creaky lately.

“With everyone petting me, the doctor pants lady put another needle in my leg, but this time, as the fluid went in, my legs were healed! My knees were perfect! And as I felt it move through my body, my cancer disappeared! And then my kidneys felt better! And finally, even my heart was whole, and healthy! I felt like I had sprung away from all of my sickness. Amazing!”

“I saw my person, and Jay, and the lady who lives at our house, Shelly. They seemed to be huddling over something. I walked over to look. It seemed like… I don’t know. It kind of looked like me, but the way I looked when I was feeling really sick, or exhausted. The face was blurred out, so I couldn’t really tell, but that poor guy looked like he had been suffering.

I could tell my person was both relieved and very, very sad. I love him so much. I looked at that me-shaped shell, and I looked at him… I think he was sad about that shell. I jumped around the room, like a clown, but it seemed like they wanted to be somber, and focus on whatever that thing was they were petting and kissing.

“But my person was definitely sad. I leaned on him, like I’ve done a million times before, but it wasn’t quite the same. It felt like his body was a cloud and I passed right through him. So I walked up next to him, sat like a good boy, and my heart whispered to his, “Don’t worry, buddy. I gotcha covered.”

“I will never leave his side. He knows that.”

i carry your heart with me 

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
 
i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
 
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by E. E. Cummings

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.

The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.

The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

The Blacksmith

The hammer strikes the fiery steel,
The sparks, like fire-flies, dance and wheel,
The anvil rings out like a bell,
A slow, relentless, steady beat,
And in the gloom, the blazing furnace fiercely glows,
Sweat glistens on his arms amid the smoke and heat.

As hammer fell, his voice rang deep and clear,
Singing praises to the gods who held his craft so dear,
Hephaestus, Brigid, Vulcan and Sethlans,
All heard his song and added wisdom to those powerful arms,
This sword would have no lack, no flaw,
This sword would crown a king, and give the warring chieftains law.

A cunning Man who viewed this feat of skill, in dream, from far away,
Awoke and grasping sack and staff, he walked for many, many days.
Then late one stormy night, with staff, he struck the blacksmith's door,
When beckoned in, and fed and warmed,
He told the blacksmith of his dream for ending war,
A sword for chivalry and peace, a Sword to guard the righteous and the poor.

The deal was done, with promises and charms and gold,
Next day the sun, like blazing fire, arose, as off they walked to seek the gods of old,
The bleak and rocky summit of Fanfawr, the blacksmith and the druid sought,
and Merlin mused his plans for such a sword so cheaply bought,
They walked in thoughtful silence, rarely did they stop for rest,
Touched by the Ancient Gods, they hurried to complete their quest.

They reached the summit, late at night, the forests and the valleys far behind,
The lightning flashes burned their eyes, through lashing rain, they stumbled forward, blind.
The blacksmith climbed the ancient ruddy stone,
The druid chanted, rattled wood and bone,
The blacksmith raised Excalibur above his head, although he shook with fear,
The mountain shook, the shrieking wind tore at his cloak , the Ancient Ones drew near.

One mighty thrust, his work was done, the sword pierced deeply into stone,
He fell to earth , his body spent, he rose up with the gods and travelled on.
And Merlin built a sacred cairn upon the place the Blacksmiths body lay,
And for a cycle of the moon , he mourned and fasted and he prayed.
So if you walk the Brecon Beacons and you reach Fanfawr.
Just touch the Cairn in honour of the Blacksmith lying there.


Patrick William Kavanagh

If Your Dog Could Write A Letter Telling You How Much They Love You, This Would Be It


“I am your dog, and I have a little something I’d like to whisper in your ear.

I know that you humans lead busy lives. Some have to work, some have children to raise. It always seems like you are running here and there, often much too fast, often never noticing the truly grand things in life.

Look down at me now, while you sit there at your computer. See the way my dark brown eyes look at yours? They are slightly cloudy now. That comes with age. The gray hairs are beginning to ring my soft muzzle. You smile at me; I see love in your eyes. What do you see in mine? Do you see a spirit? A soul inside, who loves you as no other could in the world? A spirit that would forgive all trespasses of prior wrong doing for just a simple moment of your time? That is all I ask. To slow down, if even for a few minutes to be with me.

So many times you have been saddened by the words you read on that screen, of other of my kind, passing. Sometimes, we die young and oh-so-quickly, sometimes so suddenly it wrenches your heart out of your throat. Sometimes, we age so slowly before your eyes that you may not even seem to know until the very end, when we look at you with grizzled muzzles and cataract clouded eyes. Still, the love is always there, even when we must take that long sleep, to run free in a distant land. I may not be here tomorrow; I may not be here next week. Someday you will shed the water from your eyes, that humans have when deep grief fills their souls, and you will be angry at yourself that you did not have just “one more day” with me.

Because I love you so, your sorrow touches my spirit and grieves me. We have NOW, together. So come, sit down here next to me on the floor, and look deep into my eyes. What do you see? If you look hard and deep enough we will talk, you and I, heart to heart. Come to me not as “alpha” or as “trainer” or even “Mom or Dad,” come to me as a living soul and stroke my fur and let us look deep into one another’s eyes, and talk. I may tell you something about the fun of chasing a tennis ball, or I may tell you something profound about myself, or even life in general.

You decided to have me in your life because you wanted a soul to share such things with, someone very different from you. And, here I am. I am a dog, but I am alive. I feel emotion, I feel physical senses, and I can revel in the differences of our spirits and souls. I do not think of you as a “Dog on two feet” — I know what you are. You are human, in all your quirkiness, and I love you still.

Now, come sit with me, on the floor. Enter my world, and let time slow down if only for 15 minutes. Look deep into my eyes, and whisper to my ears. Speak with your heart, with your joy and I will know your true self. We may not have tomorrow, and life is oh-so-very short.


Love, Your Dog”

The Last Battle

If it should be that I grow weak,
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then you must do what must be done,
For this last battle cannot be won.

You will be sad, I understand;
Don't let your grief then stay your hand.
For this day more than all the rest,
Your love for me must stand the test.

We've had so many happy years -
What is to come can hold no fears.
You'd not want me to suffer so;
The time has come, so let me go.

Take me where my needs they'll tend
And please stay with me until the end.
Hold me firm and speak to me
Until my eyes no longer see.

I know in time that you will see
The kindness that you did for me.
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I've been saved.

Please do not grieve - it must be you
Who had this painful thing to do.
We've been so close, we two, these years -
Don't let your heart hold back its tears.

Lepanto

White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half-attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain - hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground, -
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk may hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces - four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still - hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that bath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed -
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in a man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stairways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.

They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign -
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade. . .

(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

 Note:

There are parcels arriving near every day. Tins of biscuits in the kitchen. Short-breads covered in chocolate.. Hmm I s'pose I should be thinking about presents for Miss N and Master Emmet.

Fortunately the pension cheques arrived.. unfortunately in pounds Stirling. What are they thinking of. The damn Sasennachs. Good Lord. 

Poor Douglass De Furbanques De Bellevue gets his in Euros. 

Misters Ajax, Achilles and Exeter get gold sovereigns from the Minders Collage and are the envy of the regiment.

The Battle of Otterburn

It fell about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride
Into England, to drive a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.

And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough shire:
And three good towers on Reidswire fells,
He left them all on fire.

And he march'd up to Newcastle,
And rode it round about:
"O wha's the lord of this castle?
Or wha's the lady o't ?"

But up spake proud Lord Percy then,
And O but he spake hie!
"I am the lord of this castle,
My wife's the lady gaye."

"If thou'rt the lord of this castle,
Sae weel it pleases me!
For, ere I cross the Border fells,
The tane of us sall die."

He took a lang spear in his hand,
Shod with the metal free,
And for to meet the Douglas there,
He rode right furiouslie.

But O how pale his lady look'd,
Frae aff the castle wa',
When down, before the Scottish spear,
She saw proud Percy fa'.

"Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,
I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;
But your sword sall gae wi' mee."

"But gae ye up to Otterbourne,
And wait there dayis three;
And, if I come not ere three day is end,
A fause knight ca' ye me."

"The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn;
'Tis pleasant there to be;
But there is nought at Otterbourne,
To feed my men and me.

"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild from tree to tree;
But there is neither bread nor kale,
To feed my men and me.

"Yet I will stay it Otterbourne,
Where you shall welcome be;
And, if ye come not at three day is end,
A fause lord I'll ca' thee."

"Thither will I come," proud Percy said,
"By the might of Our Ladye!" -
"There will I bide thee," said the Douglas,
"My troth I plight to thee."

They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
And threw their pallions down.

And he that had a bonnie boy,
Sent out his horse to grass,
And he that had not a bonnie boy,
His ain servant he was.

But up then spake a little page,
Before the peep of dawn:
"O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,
For Percy's hard at hand."

"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!
Sae loud I hear ye lie;
For Percy had not men yestreen,
To fight my men and me.


"But I have dream'd a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man was I."

He belted on his guid braid sword,
And to the field he ran;
But he forgot the helmet good,
That should have kept his brain.

When Percy wi the Douglas met,
I wat he was fu fain!
They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,
And the blood ran down like rain.

But Percy with his good broad sword,
That could so sharply wound,
Has wounded Douglas on the brow,
Till he fell to the ground.

Then he calld on his little foot-page,
And said - "Run speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomery.

"My nephew good," the Douglas said,
"What recks the death of ane!
Last night I dreamd a dreary dream,
And I ken the day's thy ain.

"My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;
Take thou the vanguard of the three,
And hide me by the braken bush,
That grows on yonder lilye lee.

"O bury me by the braken-bush,
Beneath the blooming brier;
Let never living mortal ken
That ere a kindly Scot lies here."

He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi the saut tear in his e'e;
He hid him in the braken bush,
That his merrie men might not see.

The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew,
But mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons good, in English blood,
They steepd their hose and shoon;
The Lindesays flew like fire about,
Till all the fray was done.

The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They swapped swords, and they twa swat,
And aye the blood ran down between.

"Yield thee, now yield thee, Percy," he said,
"Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!"
"To whom must I yield," quoth Earl Percy,
"Now that I see it must be so ?"

"Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush,
That grows upon yon lilye lee!"

"I will not yield to a braken-bush,
Nor yet will I yield to a brier;
But I would yield to Earl Douglas,
Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here."

As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,
He stuck his sword's point in the gronde;
The Montgomery was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the honde.

This deed was done at Otterbourne,
About the breaking of the day;
Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,
And the Percy led captive away.

anonymous

Marmion a Christmas poem

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:
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
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:
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,
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,
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;
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;
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
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’.
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,
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.
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,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death to tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls.
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 makers in,
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;
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
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.

Sir Walter Scott

Light Shining out of Darkness

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

by William Cowper

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!


Arthur Hugh Clough

 Snoopy's Christmas

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!

The news had come out in the First World War
The bloody Red Baron was flying once more
The Allied command ignored all of it's men
And called on Snoopy to do it again.

Was the night before Christmas, 40 below
When Snoopy went up in search of his foe
He spied the Red Baron, fiercely they fought
With ice on his wings Snoopy knew he was caught.

Christmas bells those Christmas bells
Ring out from the land
Asking peace of all the world
And good will to man

The Baron had Snoopy dead in his sights
He reached for the trigger to pull it up tight
Why he didn't shoot, well, we'll never know
Or was it the bells from the village below.

Christmas bells those Christmas bells
Ringing through the land
Bringing peace to all the world
And good will to man

The Baron made Snoopy fly to the Rhine
And forced him to land behind the enemy lines
Snoopy was certain that this was the end
When the Baron cried out, "Merry Christmas, my friend!"

The Baron then offered a holiday toast
And Snoopy, our hero, saluted his host
And then with a roar they were both on their way
Each knowing they'd meet on some other day.

Christmas bells those Christmas bells
Ringing through the land
Bringing peace to all the world
And good will to man.

 From the Day-Book of a Forgotten Prince


    MY FATHER us happy or we should be poor.
    His gateway is wide, and the folk of the moor
    Come singing so gaily right up to the door.

    We live in a castle that's dingy and old;
    The casements are broken, the corridors cold,
    The larder is empty, the cook is a scold.

    But father can dance, and his singing is loud.
    From meadow and highway there's always a crowd
    That gathers to hear him, and this makes him proud.

    He roars out a song in a voice that is sweet--
    Of grandeur that's gone, rare viands to eat,
    And treasure that used to be laid at his feet.

    He picks up his phone, faded, wrinkled and torn,
    Though banded in ermine, moth-eaten and worn,
    And held at the throat by a twisted old thorn.

    He leaps in the air with a rickety grace,
    And a kingly old smile illumines his face,
    While he fondles his beard and stares off into space.

    The villagers laugh, then look quickly away,
    And some of them kneel in the orchard to pray.
    I often hear whispers: "The old king is fey."

    But after they're gone, we shall find, if you please,
    White loaves and a pigeon, and honey and cheese,
    And wine that we drink while I sit on his knees.

    And, while he sups, he will feed me and tell
    Of Mother, whom men used to call "The Gazelle,"
    And of glorious times before the curse fell.

    And then he will fall, half-asleep, to the floor;
    The rafters will echo his quivering snore. . . .
    I go to find cook through the slack oaken door.

    My father is happy or we should be poor.
    His gateway is wide, and the folk of the moor
    Come singing so gaily right up to the door.

        Jean Starr Untermeyer

Curse of the Ghost from Barrow-downs

Cold be hand and heart and bone,
and cold be sleep under stone:
never more to wake on stony bed,
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.

In the black wind the stars shall die,
and still on gold here let them lie,
till the dark lord lifts his hand
over dead sea and withered land.



J.R.R. Tolkien

First Christmas

This day a year ago, he was rolling in the snow
With a younger brother in his father's yard
Christmas break, a time for touching home,
The heart of all he'd known
And leaving was so hard
Three thousand miles away,
Now he's working Christmas Day
Making double time for the minding of the store
Well he always said, he'd make it on his own
He's spending Christmas Eve alone
First Christmas away from home

She's standing by the train station,
Pan-handling for change
Four more dollars buys a decent meal and a room
Looks like the Sally Ann place after all,
In a crowded sleeping hall
That echoes like a tomb
But it's warm and clean and free,
And there are worse places to be
At least it means no beating from her Dad
And if she cries because it's Christmas Day
She hopes that it won't show
First Christmas away from home

In the apartment stands a tree,
And it looks so small and bare
Not like it was meant to be,
Golden angel on the top
It's not that same old silver star,
You wanted for your own
First Christmas away from home

In the morning, they get prayers,
Then it's crafts and tea downstairs
Then another meal back in his little room
Hoping maybe that "the boys"
Will think to phone before the day is gone
Well, it's best they do it soon
When the "old girl" passed away,
He fell apart more every day
Each had always kept the other pretty well
But the kids all said the nursing home was best
Cause he couldn't live alone
First Christmas away from home

In the common room they've got the biggest tree
And it's huge and cold and lifeless
Not like it ought to be,
And the lit-up flashing Santa Claus on top
It's not that same old silver star,
You once made for your own
First Christmas away from home.

Stan Rogers

The Ballad Of The Carpenter

Jesus was a working man
And a hero you will hear
Born in the town of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year
At the turning of the year

When Jesus was a little lad
Streets rang with his name
For he argued with the older men
And put them all to shame
He put them all to shame

He became a wandering journeyman
And he traveled far and wide
And he noticed how wealth and poverty
Live always side by side
Live always side by side

So he said "Come you working men
Farmers and weavers too
If you would only stand as one
This world belongs to you
This world belongs to you"

When the rich men heard what the carpenter had done
To the Roman troops they ran
Saying put this rebel Jesus down
He's a menace to God and man
He's a menace to God and man

The commander of the occupying troops
Just laughed and then he said
"There's a cross to spare on Calvaries hill
By the weekend he'll be dead
By the weekend he'll be dead"

Now Jesus walked among the poor
For the poor were his own kind
And they'd never let them get near enough
To take him from behind
To take him from behind

So they hired one of the traders trade
And an informer was he
And he sold his brother to the butchers men
For a fistful of silver money
For a fistful of silver money

And Jesus sat in the prison cell
And they beat him and offered him bribes
To desert the cause of his fellow man
And work for the rich men's tribe,
To work for the rich men's tribe

And the sweat stood out on Jesus' brow
And the blood was in his eye
When they nailed his body to the Roman cross
And they laughed as they watched him die
They laughed as they watched him die

Two thousand years have passed and gone
Many a hero too
But the dream of this poor carpenter
Remains in the hands of you
Remains in the hands of you

Phil Ochs

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

In the Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

Christina Rossetti

 A very happy birthday to Master Emmet and Miss Niamh.


From:

Colonel, The Honourable, Dugal Blackthorn-Badger, 79th Foot (Ret.)
Haemish-Mór - RRRR (Ret.)
Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon - An Exile
Albert Grator Esq.
Callum McCallum - Haemish’s younger brother
RSM Bruin Theodore McGruph - late of The PPCLI.
Tutk - A Great FuryBear


    THE IMPERIOUS TEDDYBEAR ZOUAVES

Allywishes Bear
Le Duc Douglas Louis D’Orleans DeBellevu Furbanques
Kingston Bear
L.L. Bear
Mr. Bearkowski
Osgoode Small (QC)
Roncivales Navigator (Captain RN. Ret.)
Seamus “Slugger” O’Toole
The BigWhite Bear
The Lady that’s Known as Lou
The TeddyBear with GreenFeet
The TeddyBear with The-Red-Toque


    THE QUEEN’S OWN PIG IRREGULARS

ArchiBold McOinqle (of That Ilk)
Maes Howe (PH.D.)
F-X McGurq (PH.D.)
L.B, “Spike” Pig (PH.D.) Esq.
Winston Hog’Inn Däs (Oxon.)


    THE FEARSOME FIRST FENCIBLES

Alexsandair Grant of Freuchie
Festus Grant of Glenmoriston
Angus SteadFastt
BatmanBear - Dugal’s soldier servant
Halvadar-Major Rupert Palantine Finehorn RRRR
Horatio ‘Potomus
Mr. Springfield Buffalo (Late of Lord Strathcona’s Horse)
T.T. McGruph
Tim The Bear


    THE FIRST DRAGON DRAGOON GUARDS

Rhome Clay Esq.
Tre’r Ceiri The Sliver Dragon
The TeddyBear with the damaged arms (A Most Honourary Dragon)


    MINDERS AND WATCHERS

Mr. Ajax
Mr. Achilles
Mr. Exeter
Mr. Brun
Mr. Blanc

Once in Royal Davids city
 
Once in royal Davids city,
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby,
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ, her little Child.
   
He came down to earth from heaven,
Who is God and Lord of all,
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall:
With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
Lived on earth our Saviour holy.

For He is our childhood's pattern;
Day by day, like us, He grew;
He was little, weak, and helpless,
Tears and smiles, like us He knew;
And He cares when we are sad,
And he shares when we are glad.

And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love;
For that Child so dear and gentle,
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And He leads His children on,
To the place where He is gone.

Oh Little Town of Bethlehem

O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth!
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.

Where children pure and happy
Pray to the blessed Child,
Where misery cries out to thee,
Son of the mother mild;
Where charity stands watching
And faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes, the glory breaks,
And Christmas comes once more.
O holy Child of Bethlehem!
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us to-day.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!

Hark the herald angels sing

Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"
  
Christ by highest heav'n adored
Christ the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come
Offspring of a Virgin's womb
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate Deity
Pleased as man with man to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings
Ris'n with healing in His wings
Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
 
Robert Frost

How to Scientifically Explain Santa Claus to Your Children

The Santa questions start firing at you before your kids turn five. How does he speed around the world in a single night? How does he know what I want? Sure, you could lie and deny Santa's existence, but be ready for some tears.

The good news is, there are perfectly reasonable answers to the many questions relating to his annual mission. The bad news: The science involved is typically beyond the reach of the average six year old. Most graduate students can't understand the specifics of wormhole formation. Second-graders? Forget it.

Don't worry, though: I am a professional. Follow this simple* guide, and explain Santa's magical mission with science and technology.

How does he deliver so many presents in a single night?

The new movie Arthur Christmas describes a high-tech military-style global operation. In 1994's Miracle on 34th Street, Santa says he can slow time, and in Elf he's got a hot rod sleigh. But none of these techniques could truly get St. Nick into all those living rooms in one night.

Santa clearly uses wormholes, the tunnels through space and time that allow travelers to jump from one side of the cosmos to the other or—in this case, from one neighborhood to the next. But trying to give your kid a primer on relativity, gravity and negative energy would be pointless. Instead, take a piece of paper, draw a picture of your house on one half, then a friend's home on the opposite one. Trace a line from one side of the sheet to the other to represent the standard path—the route Santa would take in an airborne sleigh. Now fold the paper down the middle so the two houses are back-to-back, one on either side.

You don't have to get into the curvature of space-time, but you can tell your kids that Santa uses deep scientific knowledge to see a different map of the universe, one that contains roads most people don't know about. The Jolly Old Elf may have found a way to jump or drop from one house to the next without having to travel along the same line you'd use. If they're still asking questions after that, pull up Time Bandits on Netflix streaming. If that doesn't satisfy, you might have a future physicist.

How does Santa do it all without being seen?

Obviously, his suit allows him to become invisible. Again, though, explaining exactly how this works can be tricky. We see everything around us because objects and people and plants give off light. When he wants to hide, however, Santa's suit cloaks him from view by deflecting and re-routing the light in the room. There are such materials in research labs today, but you're better off showing your kids a simpler example of this kind of cloaking technique, such as this new adaptive camouflage system.

How does he know if I've been good or bad?

The idea of someone watching your every move terrifies most adults, but kids can deal with it. A reasonable explanation would be that Santa has a fleet of robotic flying drones, each of which records HD video and audio, then relays this data, via satellite, back to the North Pole. If your kids are doubtful, show them these videos of Aerovironment Inc.'s amazing new hummingbird aerial vehicle.

Is Santa really immortal?

Of course not. He's just very, very old. And if your little one wants to know how it is that he has lived so long, try a car analogy. When a part of the family sedan breaks down, we take it to the shop to have it replaced, and the car keeps running. The same holds for Santa. When one of his essential parts, such as his egg-nog-soaked liver, needs replacement, his robotic surgeons replace it with an artificial, newly-printed organ. If any more questions follow, bring up this TED talk. They'll either become a doctor or fall asleep. Either way you're set.

How does he read so many wish lists?

Although it's nice to picture the old guy sitting at a desk, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, reading through stacks of illegible wish lists, this would take forever. Kids get a kick out of big numbers, so it might be worth running through some hypotheticals. If Santa were to receive 10 million wish lists, and take a mere 20 seconds to read and choose an item from each one, the whole job would take him a little more than six years. And that's without a break. Instead, I'd suggest that he uses a rapid document scanner in tandem with optical character recognition software. In short, his computers read the notes for him.

Finally, if you're asked why elves have pointy ears, the answer is should be obvious. They are Vulcans.

Silent Night

Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon verge, Mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Savior is born!
Christ the Savior is born

Silent night, holy night!
Son of God love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth

Josef Mohr

Arguably the world’s most popular Christmas carol comes in several different translations from the German original. It started out as a poem by the Austrian Catholic priest Father Josef Mohr in 1816. Two years later, Mohr was curate at the parish church of St Nicola in Oberndorf when he asked the organist and local schoolteacher Franz Xaver Gruber to put music to his words.

An unreliable legend has it that the church organ had been damaged by mice, but whatever the reason, Gruber wrote it to be performed by two voices and guitar. It was first performed at midnight mass on Christmas Eve 1818, with Mohr and Gruber themselves taking the solo voice roles.

Its fame eventually spread (allegedly it has been translated into over 300 languages and dialects) and it famously played a key role in the unofficial truce in the trenches in 1914 because it was one of the only carols that both British and German soldiers knew.

Good King Wenceslas

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shown the moon that night,
Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me.
If thou know it telling:
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear the thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went,
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how.
I can go no longer.
Ark my footsteps my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master's step he trod,
Where the snow lay dented.
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.


Words: John Mason Neale

The Reverend Doctor Neale was a high Anglican whose career was blighted by suspicion that he was a crypto-Catholic, so as warden of Sackville College – an almshouse in East Grinstead – he had plenty of time for study and composition. Most authorities deride his words as “horrible”, “doggerel” or “meaningless”, but it has withstood the test of time. The tune came from a Scandinavian song that Neale found in a rare medieval book that had been sent to him by a friend who was British ambassador in Stockholm.

There really was a Wenceslas – Vaclav in Czech – although he was Duke of Bohemia, rather than a king. Wenceslas (907–935) was a pious Christian who was murdered by his pagan brother Boleslav; after his death a huge number of myths and stories gathered around him. Neale borrowed one legend to deliver a classically Victorian message about the importance of being both merry and charitable at Christmas.

Go, Tell It On The Mountain


While shepherds kept their watching
Over Wandering flocks by night
Behold throughout the heavens,
There shone a holy light:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

The shepherds feared and trembled
When lo! above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Saviour's birth:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

Down in a lowly manger
Our humble Christ was born
And God sent us salvation,

That blessed Christmas morn:

Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

When I was a seeker,
I sought both night and day;
I asked the Lord to help me,
And He showed me the way:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

He made me a watchman
Upon the city wall,
And if I am a Christian,
I am the least of all.
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.
While shepherds kept their watching
Over Wandering flocks by night
Behold throughout the heavens,
There shone a holy light:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

The shepherds feared and trembled
When lo! above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Saviour's birth:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

Down in a lowly manger
Our humble Christ was born
And God sent us salvation,

That blessed Christmas morn:

Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

When I was a seeker,
I sought both night and day;
I asked the Lord to help me,
And He showed me the way:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

He made me a watchman
Upon the city wall,
And if I am a Christian,
I am the least of all.
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen


God rest ye merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy!

From God our heavenly Father
A blessed angel came;
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tiding of the same;
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.

"Fear not, then," said the angel,
"Let nothing you affright;
This day is born a Savior
Of a pure virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in him
From Satan's power and might."

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
Doth bring redeeming grace.


Origin unknown

This is thought to have originated in London in the 16th or 17th centuries before running to several different versions with different tunes all over England. The most familiar melody dates back to at least the 1650s when it appeared in a book of dancing tunes. It was certainly one of the Victorians’ favourites.

If you want to impress people with your knowledge (or pedantry), then point out to them that the comma is placed after the “merry” in the first line because the song is enjoining the gentlemen (possibly meaning the shepherds abiding in the fields) to be merry because of Christ’s birthday. It’s not telling “merry gentlemen” to rest!
 

Lock the Door, Lariston


Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale,   
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on,   
    The Armstrongs are flying,   
    The widows are crying,   
The Castletown’s burning, and Oliver’s gone!           

Lock the door, Lariston,—high on the weather-gleam,   
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky,—   
    Yeoman and carbinier,   
    Bilman and halberdier;   
Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.           

Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar;   
Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey;   
    Hidley and Howard there,   
    Wandale and Windermere,—   
Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay.           

Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston?   
Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye?   
    Thou bold Border ranger,   
    Beware of thy danger;—   
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.           

Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,   
His hand grasped the sword with a nervous embrace;   
    ‘Ah, welcome, brave foemen,   
    On earth there are no men   
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!           

‘Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here;   
Little know you of our moss-troopers’ might—   
    Lindhope and Sorbie true,   
    Sundhope and Milburn too,   
Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!           

‘I’ve Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherbie,   
Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;   
    Come, all Northumberland,   
    Teesdale and Cumberland,   
Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray.’           

Scowl’d the broad sun o’er the links of green Liddisdale,   
Red as the beacon-light tipp’d he the wold;   
    Many a bold martial eye,   
    Mirror’d that morning sky,   
Never more oped on his orbit of gold!           

Shrill was the bugle’s note! dreadful the warriors’ shout!   
Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;   
    Helmet and hauberk then   
    Braved the claymore in vain,   
Buckler armlet in shivers were shorn.           

See how they wane—the proud files of the Windermere!   
Howard—ah! woe to thy hopes of the day!   
    Hear the wide welkin rend,   
    While the Scots’ shouts ascend,   
‘Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!’           


James Hogg

Gathering Song of Donald the Black



Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
     Pitbroch of Donuil
Wake thy wild voice anew,
     Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
     Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,
     Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
     From mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon
     Are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and
     True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
     Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
     The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr’d,
     The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
     Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
     Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when
     Forests are rended,
Come as the waves come, when
     Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,
     Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
     Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
     See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume
     Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
     Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
     Knell for the onset!

by Sir Walter Scott

“Fuzzy-Wuzzy”


WE ’VE fought with many men acrost the seas,   
  An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not,   
The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;   
  But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.   
We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im:           
  ’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses,   
’E cut our sentries up at Suakim,   

  An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.   
    So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan;   
    You ’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;           
    We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed   
    We ’ll come an’ ’ave a romp with you whenever you ’re inclined.   

We took our chanst among the Kyber ’ills,   
  The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,   
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,           
  An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:   
But all we ever got from such as they   
  Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;   
We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,   
  But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller.
           
  Then ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;   
  Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.   
  We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it was n’t ’ardly fair;   
  But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.   

’E ’as n’t got no papers of ’is own,           
  ’E ’as n’t got no medals nor rewards,   
So we must certify the skill ’e ’s shown   
  In usin’ of ’is long two-’anded swords:   
When ’e ’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush   
  With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,           
An ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush   
  Will last an ’ealthy Tommy for a year.   

    So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,   
    If we ’ad n’t lost some messmates we would ’elp you to deplore;   
    But give an’ take ’s the gospel, an’ we ’ll call the bargain fair,           
    For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!   

’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,   
  An’, before we know, ’e ’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead;   
’E ’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive,   
  An’ ’e ’s generally shammin’ when ’e ’s dead.           
’E ’s a daisy, ’e ’s a ducky, ’e ’s a lamb!   
  ’E ’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,   
’E ’s the on’y thing that does n’t give a damn   
  For a Regiment o’ British Infantree!   

    So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan;           
    You ’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;   
    An’ ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air—   
    You big black boundin’ beggar—for you broke a British square!