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| 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, | |
| Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. | |
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| A Spanish galleon brought the bar,—so runs the ancient tale; | 5 |
| ’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. | |
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| ’T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, | |
| Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same; | 10 |
| And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, | |
| ’T was filled caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. | |
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| 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, | 15 |
| He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps. | |
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| 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 adobes,— | |
| To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred load. | 20 |
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| ’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. | |
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| He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared,— | 25 |
| 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. | |
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| That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, | |
| He heard the Pequot’s ringing whoop, the soldier’s wild halloo; | 30 |
| 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!” | |
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| 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,— | 35 |
| ’T was mingled by a mother’s hand to cheer her parting boy. | |
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| “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! | 40 |
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| 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; has thou a drunken soul? | |
| Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl! | |
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| I love the memory of the past,—its pressed yet fragrant flowers,— | 45 |
| The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; | |
| Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,—my eyes grow moist and dim, | |
| To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. | |
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| Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; | |
| The goblet hallows all it holds, whate’er the liquid be; | 50 |
| 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?” | |
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